Retrieval
by GDA2010
Summary: In the wake of season 8, the journey back.
1. Chapter 1

This is primarily a Jack/Renee fic but you'll find other characters from seasons 7&8 in here as well. It takes place in the hours, days and weeks after Season 8. I've read conflicting timelines and dates on a couple of sites but have decided to go with 24 Wikia's timeline with 18 months passing between seasons 7 & 8 and also that the dates for season 8 are Feb 27 & 28 for timing purposes.

Standard fanfic disclaimers apply and feedback is always sincerely appreciated. :)

Enjoy…

* * *

><p>February 28<p>

5:32 pm

Half-slumped against a cinderblock wall, Jack Bauer waits in the shadows of an abandoned industrial building, wooden crates of various sizes providing cover while he breathes in air thick with dust and heavy with the scent of motor oil and diesel fuel.

He raises a hand to wipe the thin sheen of perspiration from his face then drops his palm to rest against the bandage high on his left chest. He winces from the pain the added pressure induces at the site.

The gunshot wound has been throbbing incessantly since the pain medication the EMTs gave him wore off. How Chloe managed to miss his lung is still beyond him and, on another day, he'd probably consider himself lucky.

But not today; not with everything else that's happened.

Taser burns, stab wounds, gunshot wounds… He's lost track of all the damage inflicted on him by another day intent on leaving him bruised and battered, exhausted and grieving.

The slice along his ribcage and the gunshot wound in his chest are the worst of it right now. And, while the EMTs had done a decent job of cleaning and dressing everything in the field, when he last checked the dressings over his ribs and near his shoulder he could see they were still oozing.

Still, he isn't overly concerned about them right now.

In the end, they're all just the latest in a long series of wounds that will leave the latest in a long series of visible scars – and it's been a long time since those have mattered to him.

It's the other wounds and scars, the ones that only _he_ can see or feel, the ones that travel deeply enough into his soul that they never truly seem to heal, it's _those_ wounds and scars that affect him most, it's _those_ wounds and scars that always leave behind the most damage.

He's suffered another in a long line of those today as well.

As another painful spasm travels through his shoulder and chest, he clenches his jaw and closes his tired eyes against it.

Instantly, he is greeted by a quick succession of images playing out in the darkness.

For a few quick moments, she is with him again…

Standing in front of him at CTU, deeply weary, her lips bearing a small smile that hadn't quite managed to reach her eyes, even though he could see she was genuinely pleased to see him. Then she is walking away from him, her jaw set in determination, her eyes hardened in anger as she heads to a briefing…

This isn't the first time he's seen her when he's shut his eyes for any measureable length of time today. It isn't even the fiftieth. And even now, in mere mental pictures and memories, her expressive eyes – green with hints of blue and the occasional speck of gold – impact him in ways he can't quite grasp or explain.

The images aren't always the same, but they're always of _her. _And, as they have every other time, they bring with them the sensation of a fist closing around his heart, squeezing with all its might. The resulting pain and anger is strong enough that he's actually found himself flinching at times.

In his mind's eye, she is still there, standing near a ditch, moments before he was going to shoot her, her eyes full of challenge and betrayal and anger.

And she is in his apartment, her eyes resigned as she tried to tell him it was okay to walk away from her.

Then she is still and lifeless on an operating room table, the eyes that hadn't once failed to draw him in since the moment he met her, closed forever.

Pushing it all away, he swallows hard and forces his eyes open. He can't deal with this. Not now. Not yet.

There are still things to do.

Thankfully, the distant crunch of dirt and gravel seizes his attention. Instantly, he tenses and becomes more alert as he automatically assesses the situation.

He listens carefully and hears the muffled sound of a car door closing in the distance. Then a second car door – or a trunk, maybe – is shut.

Now, there are footsteps.

One pair of heavy, military-grade boots is slowly moving along the outside of the wall bordering the alley. He strains his ears for a moment and by the sound of the stride, he decides the wearer is male. There are no additional footsteps, no other sounds to be heard beyond the normal background noise of the city. The man appears to be alone.

A minute later, the large and heavy door on the adjacent wall slides open with the screech of metal grating against metal.

Jack does his best to quiet his harsh breathing.

The soles of the boots echo into the thick, gray stillness as they make contact with the concrete floor of the building and another moment passes in silence before the door is pulled closed again.

As the man slowly steps further into the room, Jack picks up on the almost imperceptible fact that one step is just slightly heavier than the other. The man is carrying something heavy.

Finally, he comes to a stop in the center of the room and into the view provided by a thin slice of daylight between the crates.

Jack exhales and his body relaxes somewhat. It seems to hurt more.

Ninety minutes ago, after speaking to Chloe for the last time, he'd tossed the cell phone he'd used to speak to her. He managed to find a run-down maintenance garage he felt would likely be devoid of working surveillance cameras. After verifying that fact, he'd snuck inside and knocked out the sole and unsuspecting mechanic from behind. He used the sink in the small bathroom to rinse the blood – both his and Pillar's – from his mouth and cleaned up his face and hands as best he could. Before leaving, he snagged the man's jacket and cell phone, making one call from it before ditching it a few blocks later.

Since then, he's been here. Waiting. Planning. And trying _not_ to think about how he got to this point.

Now, Jack silently steps around the crates and into the rapidly fading daylight filtering through grime-caked windows.

"Hey," he breathes to the broad-shouldered back facing him.

The man whirls to face him, his weapon already drawn.

"Christ," Jim Ricker mutters, lowering his gun. He drops the large, military-issue duffle bag draped over his shoulder to the ground and, as Jack makes his way over to him, Jim appraises him with arched brows and a faint half-smile. "You look like shit, Jack."

"Yeah," Jack snorts, letting the fact that it's also a pretty apt description for how he _feels_ go unstated. He shifts his gaze, nodding at the black bag now resting at Jim's feet. "You brought what I asked for?"

"Yeah, it's all here. IDs, passports, equipment. I threw in a little cash. It's enough to get you started."

"Thanks," Jack says, reaching for the bag. He hauls it onto a nearby crate, grimacing from the pain that the movement and stress subjects his body to.

Jim watches patiently as Jack opens the bag and rifles around inside, checking the contents.

Two Sig Sauers with holsters, extra clips and a good supply of ammunition; a military-grade fighting knife and ankle holster; a laptop, USB cable and a small electronics kit; his messenger bag; sunglasses, a baseball cap, black denim jacket and two changes of clothes…

"So you have any idea where you're going?" Jim asks finally, "Or what you're going to do?"

"I'll figure it out," Jack mumbles, ignoring his shaking fingers as he pulls out the Sigs to check them. Both have clips that are already fully loaded and when he's satisfied they'll function properly, he slides one into his waistband and the other back into the bag. Then he grabs the knife and straps it to his right ankle.

Next, he carefully slides out of the thin jacket he took from the maintenance garage and lifts his torn and bloodied shirt over his head, holding his breath through the pain shooting through his entire chest and abdomen as the muscles stretch.

"Jesus, Jack," Jim exclaims, getting a look at his arms and chest, "they've sure done a number on you, haven't they?"

Jack doesn't answer. Instead, he turns and grabs the baseball cap, one of the t-shirts and the denim jacket. Just as he starts to put the shirt on, Jim stops him.

"Hold on," he says, moving over to the bag. He reaches into it, digging deep before pulling out a large Ziploc bag and tossing it to Jack. "Antibiotics and pain medication."

Jack frowns as he examines the labels on the plastic bottles inside the bag, the sight suddenly reminding him of the remainder of the medication regimen he's leaving behind along with the rest of his life.

The shit just keeps piling on.

"From what I heard on the scanners," Jim goes on, "I figured you might be needing them. From what I _see_, I figured right."

"Yeah," Jack exhales, watching as Jim continues rifling around in the bag. Finally, he pulls out a medical kit.

"Looks like a couple of those could use some attention," Jim says before nodding to a low crate, "Take a seat. It's been a while since I've had to do this sort of thing but I can still clean and suture when I need to."

Jack doesn't move. He doesn't have time for this; he needs to get going. "It's fine. The EMTs cleaned them up. I'll take care of the rest later."

"Jack…" Jim says, pinning him with a hard look, "My guess is that the EMTs cleaned them up expecting a doctor to be looking at them. Now, I'm no doctor but we both know basic medic training came with the job."

Jack stays silent. He's already wasted enough time. Chloe can't hold everyone off indefinitely.

"At least let me work on that one," Jim goes on, nodding toward Jack's upper chest, "I'm guessing gunshot wound, right? Through and through? I'll have two hands and a better vantage point, Jack. And I'll be quick about it."

Jack appreciates the man's point. The exit wound is going to be a bitch for him to deal with on his own, even with a mirror and plenty of time – neither of which he foresees having any time soon.

Finally, he nods. "All right."

If Jim is at all thrown by or curious about the other scars scattered on his back and chest, he doesn't say anything. In fact, he works in silence as he cleans both the entrance and exit wounds. For his part, Jack stares straight ahead, grimacing from the pain, wishing he would hurry the hell up.

Several times, the discomfort forces his eyes closed for more than an instant and each time, she is there…

Next to him, assuring him she could handle engaging a suspect while he covered her flank, her eyes confident and fearless…

In front of him at the reflecting pool in Washington, her jaw firmly set, her eyes silently arguing with him, wordlessly telling him he was asking too much of her…

Inches from him, her eyes determined and unyielding as she told him she was coming with him on his mission to supervise Hassan's evacuation from the UN – whether he liked it or not…

Climbing out of a van after he'd shot and buried her alive, her eyes hard and angry and a paler shade of green than he'd seen to that point.

When Jim is finally done, he presses two bulky bandages into place and steps back. "Okay, you're set," he declares simply.

"Thanks," Jack says, rising to stand, feeling a brief wave of dizziness pass over him. He ignores it and carefully pulls on both the clean t-shirt and the denim jacket, watching Jim as he moves back to the duffle bag and tosses what's left of the med kit back inside.

"There's another kit at the bottom," Jim says, "Gauze, saline, tape… The basics."

Stepping back over to the duffle bag, Jack drops the bag of medications back inside and returns his attention to making a mental note of the inventory.

A sat phone; several IDs with corresponding passports; a standard tool kit; a basic surveillance package; a thick envelope of money...

Finally, Jack grabs the cap and sunglasses and closes the bag, satisfied that it contains everything he asked for and more.

"Thanks, Jim," he says tiredly, hefting the bag onto his right shoulder, his body protesting under the added weight.

"Listen, Jack," Jim says before Jack can step away, "I have a buddy who captains a freighter. He's shipping out tonight for Cape Town. With the stops it'll make, it's practically a month by sea, Jack. That's almost four weeks off the grid without even really trying. That's a little time for the heat to die down and for you to 'figure it out.'"

Jack doesn't say anything immediately. Instead he openly studies Jim's face for hints of deception or ulterior motive. He doesn't find it.

Jim sighs. "Yeah well, it was a thought," he says grimly, "Look, I gotta go pack up. Some kid from CTU barged into my place looking for you. I'm compromised."

"What was his name?"

"The kid?" Jim asks, then pauses to think back for a moment. "Ortiz. Why?"

Jack says nothing, quickly putting it together. Somehow, Chloe and Arlo must have spotted Jim while searching for him. Probably at the mall. They must have managed to ID and locate him and Chloe sent Cole in. That's how she figured out he'd be targeting Suvarov and where to look for him.

"The fact that you're not dead tells me he found you," Jim goes on with a frown, "And if you're waiting for me to say I'm sorry I helped him out with that, don't hold your breath. We both know every law enforcement officer in the city is gunning for you right now. And this guy? He seemed to be the only one of 'em genuinely interested in making sure you didn't get yourself killed. I just thought… you could use some help."

Jack sighs and meets Jim's eyes, a tired, faint smile lifting the corner of his mouth. "It's all right, Jim. It worked out."

Jim's eyes drift to Jack's chest as if picturing the damage underneath the t-shirt. "Did it?"

Jack doesn't answer. He's not dead. That's about the only relatively high point he can see of it right now.

"Anyway," Jim goes on, "This Ortiz kid gave his word he'd keep his mouth shut but I can't take the chance."

"I know him," Jack says firmly, "If he gave his word, you can trust it. You don't need to pack up."

"Maybe. Maybe not. We'll see." Jim reaches into a pocket inside his jacket and pulls out a folded manila envelope, extending it toward Jack. "Look, in case you decide to go with the freighter, you'll need this. All the info you'll need, all the proper documents, they're in here. Captain's name is Quentin Tucker. I'll call him after I leave here. I won't give him any specifics, just enough that he won't shoot first and ask questions later. Whether you show up or not will be entirely up to you."

Jack stares down at the envelope, absently running his fingers along his palm as he silently analyzes the option.

"He's one of us, Jack," Jim adds, as if sensing Jack's hesitation, "He's a good guy. You can trust him."

Jack switches his gaze to the door, squinting as he continues to consider it for another long moment, the thought of being on a freighter threatening to dredge up memories he'd rather keep where he's buried them. Finally, and without an actual decision about it in his head, he takes the envelope.

"What makes you think he'll let a fugitive on board? Let alone give one safe passage?"

"Let's just say he owes me like I owed you. And that's past tense, if you get what I'm saying."

Jack nods and extends his hand. "Consider the debt repaid, Jim. I... I appreciate everything you've done."

"Good luck, Jack," Jim says, firmly grasping Jack's hand and shaking it. "And take care of yourself."


	2. Chapter 2

Apologies in advance for the length on this one.

Enjoy...

* * *

><p><em><strong>February 28<strong>_

_**9:50 pm**_

In the darkness shrouding her current existence, Renee Walker becomes aware of the pain first.

The tight, burning sensation begins localized in her upper abdomen only to radiate outward with each expansion of her chest, transforming into an even more uncomfortable throbbing that consumes her entire torso for a brief moment before returning once again to its previous form of hot torture.

She tries to find an explanation for it but it's like there's a thick haziness in her brain that seems intent on making it difficult for her to think.

It takes longer than it should, but eventually she makes the connection between the regularity and depth of her breathing and the pain. Reflexively, she tries to control it, tries to adjust and breathe more shallowly in an effort to lessen the discomfort. When she can't manage that, she tries to prolong the period between breaths. After several attempts however, it becomes clear that she lacks the necessary influence over her lungs and she's forced to give up.

On some level, she knows it should bother her – that lack of control – but it doesn't. What bothers her is the pain.

And the cold.

She isn't freezing exactly, but there's a definite chill in the air around her. It seems more pronounced around her face and arms, but every inch of her feels cold and she doesn't like it. She tries to shift her body to reach out to find something to cover herself with. But her arms seem no more willing to follow her commands than her lungs.

Again, rather than be alarmed she is annoyed. The taste in her mouth isn't helping, either. Metallic and thick and almost… sour. And the smell. She smells… something. She can't identify or place it, but when added to everything else it's finally enough to trigger an instinctive need to reach beyond the blackness that surrounds her.

She tries to open her eyes – only to discover that they've joined the mutiny as well.

It's in that moment that the silence that engulfs her finally recedes. The sudden fracturing of the stillness is unexpected and the rush of sound makes her ears hurt.

There's something of a concert of clashing tones nearby but there's no real rhythm or melody to it that she can immediately discern. The loudest member of the band sounds like a two-toned horn, blaring and insistent and grating in both volume and regularity.

At first, she thinks it's some sort of alarm clock. Then she detects a loud beeping that sounds farther away and, while it feels less distressing, it's only slightly less irritating than its louder counterpart. There seems to be another type of beeping as well but its soft tone is almost soothing compared to the others.

If they are alarm clocks, and she doubts they are now, she wishes she could toss all three of them out a window.

Suddenly, as if realizing her irritation, the horn mercifully dies away and the loudest of the beeping quickly follows. She waits for the remaining offender to disappear as well, but it continues on without interruption. She figures she can handle it for now; not that she has a choice, it seems.

She should feel frustrated. And yet, what she really feels, aside from the pain and the cold, is tired. Of course, of everything, this is the one sensation that, while more pervasive than usual, isn't new to her and so she moves past it, sensing she has more important things to deal with right now.

She tries to concentrate on picking up on other sounds, hoping they will tell her something more of her situation.

A clicking nearby, soft and regular. A quiet, constant humming overhead. The hiss of a gathering and release of pressure somewhere next to her.

In that moment, she makes the connection between the hiss and the fluctuating pain in her abdomen and chest. And while she can neither define nor explain the hiss, the understanding that something is wrong finally begins to gnaw at her.

That realization is barely able to establish itself however, before she's distracted by something that tells her that she's not alone.

"Okay. Let me know when you have them in place. And call me at this number the moment you have anything."

The voice, quiet and echoing, seems to originate from somewhere off to her left. It is feminine and… irritated. It is also vaguely familiar and though she can't place it, she does find it somewhat reassuring.

She tries to shift her head in the direction of the voice but runs into the same result she has with every other attempt to move her body.

She wants to say something to the woman. She wants her to come closer. Maybe that will help. But her mouth seems as frozen in place as everything else and her vocal cords refuse to cooperate.

She can feel a vague panic begin to set in now. Something is very wrong. Her body isn't working the way it should. Her brain isn't, either. And the burning and throbbing… is_ incredible_.

Before she can attempt to explore things any further, however, the heavy void begins to close in on her again.

Tired and confused and harassed by the pain, Renee Walker doesn't bother trying to fight it.

* * *

><p><em><strong>February 28 <strong>_

_**10:02 pm**_

"Okay," Chloe O'Brian mutters into the cell phone, "Let me know when you have them in place. And call me at this number the moment you have anything."

Scowling at the city lights beyond the window, she ends the call, her frustration and worry barely outpacing her anger at the moment.

"Dammit," she curses under her breath as she drops the cell phone just inside her shoulder bag on the table nearby.

Up until two hours ago, she had every intention of letting Jack disappear into the world.

Though CTU hasn't _officially_ stopped searching for him since the initial alerts about him went out early in the day, in the past few hours it has essentially been dragging its feet in its efforts. Not that anyone outside CTU – or even within it – will really notice. She and Arlo and Cole have been employing just enough misdirection to ensure they're all looking in the wrong locations without any obvious deviations from protocol.

But now… now she needs to find him.

Not for the first time today, her mind drifts back to a moment when Jack was in the initial stages of recovery from his stem cell transplant. He was still in a coma when she'd overheard an overly-anxious Kim jokingly threaten to have the doctors secretly implant a permanent tracking device in his hip so she'd always know where he was.

Tonight, Chloe wishes she'd actually done it.

Releasing a sigh, she turns away from the window, her face scrunching up in anxiety as her eyes immediately land on the figure in the hospital bed.

_This_ is not Renee Walker.

This is not the confident and highly capable woman she met eighteen months ago in Washington. This isn't even the weary and remote woman she greeted on the helicopter pad at CTU just last night.

On the contrary, this woman is unnervingly quiet and still and dependant. In fact, she seems virtually lifeless, tied down and swallowed up in a sea of white hospital linen and medical equipment.

There are the wires from a heart monitor that disappear under the thin gown covering her body. There's the oxygen sensor clipped to a finger on her right hand. Her left hand and lower forearm rest in a splint protecting a thin IV-like catheter that burrows into the skin near her wrist and provides the constant blood pressure readings displayed on one of the monitors above the head of the bed. All three devices work unfailingly in their way to provide proof that this woman is, in fact, still alive.

Then there are the other various tubes that seemingly invade her body. IV fluids, blood, antibiotics and other medications drip into the multi-pronged IV they've inserted in the side of her neck as well as another IV situated in the crook of her right arm. The breathing tube and its straps obscure part of her freckled face. The tube collecting her urine, another draining blood from her abdomen and yet another draining blood from somewhere in her chest, all snake out from beneath the single sheet draped over her, emptying into their respective containers.

Both of her wrists are held firmly to the mattress by soft cloth restraints that ensure she won't remove the breathing tube, the drains or IVs on the off chance she wakes up on her own.

Her face seems slightly swollen; her hands, too. Her coloring is off. Dull and sallow with its faint yellowish undertone.

And God, she's deathly pale.

_Technically,_ Renee Walker_ is_ still alive – which is better than the situation that was reported to her early this morning. But to Chloe, it doesn't look or feel much better. And it still isn't right. This isn't where this woman belongs. And she sure as hell doesn't belong here alone.

_You should be here, Jack,_ she thinks to herself as she watches Renee's chest rise and fall with another mechanically-induced breath.

For reasons she can't pinpoint, Chloe suddenly grows uncomfortable. Perhaps it's the fact that she's studying a woman who isn't aware of it and wouldn't have the ability to do anything about it even if she was. Or maybe it's the realization that Jack was out there today doing what he could to expose the truth and extract justice and revenge and as a result, is now essentially exiled – all for a loss that now seems a lie. Whatever the reason, the discomfort is there and she drops her gaze, turning back toward the window again.

She crosses her arms over her chest and absently scans the scene beyond the thick glass, her mind quickly returning to replaying the past thirty hours as if an interminable data feed demanding to be analyzed.

There are plenty of events for her to choose from to dwell on – and dwelling on them has been something her brain has been all too willing to do in the last few hours – but of everything, it's the call she placed to Jack this morning that haunts her in_ this_ moment. The call that had been answered by Renee instead.

That Renee had answered Jack's phone hadn't shocked her at all; the moments that followed however…

In her head, she can still hear the sound Renee released – not quite a groan, not quite a loud sigh but some odd combination of the two – just before the sound of Jack's phone clattering to the floor echoed in her ear. She can still hear Jack calling Renee's name. Frantically. Aside from a barely audible "Jack" and a few sputtering coughs or gasps, there had been no further response from Renee that Chloe had heard – and she'd pretty much heard it all, right up until Jack abruptly disconnected the call.

The mental images that her brain has concocted of those moments still make it difficult for her to swallow.

Eighteen months ago, Special Agent Renee Walker was simply part of the operation Bill and Tony had recruited Chloe for at the time. Initially, she had merely accepted the FBI agent's involvement. Partly out of necessity. Mostly because of Jack.

By that day's end, however, Renee had become an ally. Chloe not only respected her, but… _trusted _her – well, trusted her more than she trusted most people she'd known for such a short amount of time. Even more, she found she _liked _her. Partly because of Jack. Mostly because of what she'd seen of the woman herself.

And, while she's the first to admit she doesn't make friends frequently or easily, for all intents and purposes that's the only term she can find now to describe what Renee had been on the verge of becoming before this happened. 'Ally' no longer feels quite adequate enough.

Had things not been so crazy, had they had a chance beyond the insanity of that first day – or this one…

But then…

And for Jack…

Frowning, Chloe releases another sigh.

CTU had taken over crime scene at Jack's apartment this morning. She's seen the photos her team had gathered. The blood on his bedroom floor. The disheveled bedding. The carelessly discarded clothing. It doesn't take much of an imagination to put together what happened between Jack and Renee before her call interrupted them.

She isn't sure she can ever truly understand the entirety and depth of the connection Jack and Renee managed to form with each other in such a brief time but she isn't blind, either. Even eighteen months ago she could see there was more to things than the fluke partnership that they'd established – if only because she knew Jack well enough to see Renee's effect on him that day.

She'd seen it even more clearly last night as that link between the two was reestablished and continued to develop and strengthen.

If _she's_ on the verge of calling Renee Walker a friend after two separate but brutally intense days, she has no room to question how deep of a bond Jack and Renee could have forged while working so closely together – under fire and out in the field – in essentially the same amount of time.

Chloe's frown deepens as her thoughts linger on Jack and, as it has many times in the past twelve hours, her gut responds with a gnawing, sick feeling and the tears rise to sting her eyes.

The belief that Renee was dead sent him spiraling down a devastatingly dark path, one from which Chloe has feared he might be irretrievable.

She'd spoken with him after they took Renee into surgery and again after she was informed of Renee's death. She knew he had to be in shock but his effort to control his anger and grief was evident even then.

Still, what she heard in his voice made her want to reach through the phone and hug him.

By the time he arrived back at CTU however, that option no longer existed. The anguish and devastation living beneath the surface was being smothered by the cold, barely-controlled fury that was emanating from him in dark and dangerous waves.

Then came President Taylor's attempt to lock him down and stifle the truth and what brittle control Jack had left seemed to fall away.

Chloe hadn't blamed him this morning. She can't even find it in her heart to really blame him now. In fact, even as she'd been hunting him down trying to stop him, part of her had been rooting him on.

At least, in the beginning.

But the rest of the day had tested her confidence in him, her faith in his decisions and her trust in their friendship. It had been so incredibly hard for her to go against him and even as she kept telling herself she was doing it to protect him, that it was for his own good, she struggled with herself, wanting to keep backing him even as he gave her all the reasons in the world not to.

And then… God, she'd shot him.

Even though he survived that – somehow – ultimately, she's lost the one friend she's had longer, trusted more and cared about more deeply than any she can recall. Saying goodbye has left her feeling profoundly sad and the ache she feels in her chest when she thinks about it has yet to subside. That he's out there somewhere, hunted and wounded, has been difficult to accept. But he's _alive_, and that's better than the alternative they could've been facing at the end of the day.

The undercurrent of guilt that's been with her for hours resurfaces now. She can't help feeling responsible, at least in part, for where he has ended up. Had she not pushed him to help her, he'd be back in California with his family.

Instead, he's a fugitive on the run.

And if he had only known about _this_…

She releases another frustrated breath, the anger beginning to climb up again.

It was just after seven P.M. – a mere three hours after she spoke with Jack for the last time – when she'd gotten the second call from St. Andrew's hospital. Another in a long line of cruel jokes played by Fate, its timing is a painful reminder of just how hard forces seem to be conspiring to ensure any shred of prolonged happiness eludes Jack.

She'd been standing at the glass wall of the office she temporarily inherited, exhausted on every level and only half-observing the activity on the floor below her while she talked on her cell. After everything that happened, she just needed the comfort of her family, so before getting bogged down in another conference call with Division and NSA, she'd taken a moment to call Morris, checking on him and Prescott.

She could barely bring herself to talk about it without feeling the tears threaten to overwhelm her but her husband kept at her until she reluctantly – carefully and selectively, without being the least bit forthcoming about her role in things – filled him in on the broad strokes of what had happened to Jack.

She wasn't even halfway through when her CTU line began to ring. Oh, how she had wanted to ignore it. Had she not been the Acting Director and had the all-agency hunt for Jack not still been an issue for her to contend with and subvert, she probably would have. But she was and it was and so she hadn't.

The moment the caller identified himself as calling from St. Andrew's hospital, Chloe knew what it was about and she stopped listening for a moment, dreading going any further with it.

They had to still be trying to find a next of kin to notify so they could make arrangements for the disposal of Renee's body.

Chloe knew from what she'd seen of her file that there was no next of kin listed. Her parents were both dead. She was an only child. There may have been a distant aunt or uncle or cousin somewhere but there were no other reported family members to notify.

As for the rest… the 'disposal of the body' part of things… her thoughts had instantly flown to Jack. That wasn't something _she_ was supposed to decide; because for as much as she liked Renee, for as much as she'd been on the verge of calling her a friend, in reality, she hadn't_ really_ known her – at least not to a degree where she should be making such a personal decision. Besides, something told her that Renee – and Jack – would have preferred that Jack handle it.

But that was no longer a possibility.

She had just settled on the decision to bring Renee back to CTU until she could figure out how to handle it when she noticed that the man on the other end of the line had stopped speaking.

It was then that Chloe realized she hadn't heard a word he said 'St. Andrews' and something in the lingering silence told her she had missed something vitally important. She forced her mind to quickly rewind what it could of the one-sided conversation. When it replayed it, she thought the synapses in her brain were misfiring.

"…_Renee Walker is still alive…"_

Chloe had to sit down after that. She even insisted that the caller start over. The story didn't change. Renee Walker was alive – barely – and Chloe's presence as CTU's Acting Director was requested at the hospital immediately.

Ignoring that last tidbit, Chloe demanded to know why this was the first she was hearing of it. The caller deflected the question, explaining that they had been trying to locate the man who brought Renee in for most of the day but had had no luck in finding him – at which point Chloe couldn't help but mutter "join the club."

Again, Chloe demanded to know why she wasn't notified earlier. This time, the man claimed that it had taken this long for them to track down the person who had taken Chloe's initial call alerting the hospital to Renee's impending arrival in order to get her name and number.

Something in his tone told Chloe there was much more to it than that. She demanded more details but was quickly shut down; any further explanation would be given upon her arrival at the hospital.

Then, in the moment just before the man hung up, he gave an instruction that both surprised and unsettled Chloe. She was not to inform anyone of where she was going and she was to keep Renee's status to herself. The man abruptly disconnected, not giving Chloe the chance to argue or ask questions.

She'd left for St. Andrew's immediately, part of her shocked and anxious over Renee's condition, part of her desperately trying to figure out how to find and tell Jack – and the largest part of her wanting to strangle whomever was incompetent enough to declare Renee dead in the first place.

But it wasn't until she entered the small conference room in ICU that the anger truly began to set in.

Facing her, had been two men, both standing, both in dark suits that would've screamed FBI even if she'd not seen the badges hanging on their hips plain as day. They introduced themselves as Special Agent in Charge Richard Jackson and Special Agent Jonathan Rivers, both from the FBI's New York field office.

She instantly recognized the voice of Rivers as the man who'd called her at CTU.

After asking her to sit down, Agent Jackson – a tall and slim middle-aged man with a gray, receding hairline and piercingly-sharp blue eyes – quickly got down to business.

Over the course of the next thirty minutes, the two agents took turns briefing Chloe on the situation. She can still replay virtually every moment of that meeting, she'd been so intently focused on getting answers.

Evidently, the fact that CTU had contacted the FBI regarding the dead Russian assassins wasn't so attention-garnering in and of itself. Neither was Dana Walsh's request for Renee Walker's FBI file. Nor the fact that CTU wound up bringing the former FBI agent in to brief them on background.

It wasn't until Hastings informed them – as a professional courtesy, Chloe is sure – that he had recruited Renee Walker to go back undercover with her old branch of the Russian mob that an eyebrow or two had been raised.

It had been _that_ development that had set in motion a whole cascade of events that CTU had been unaware of.

Agent Rivers, a towering African-American with a clean-shaven head and the physique of a wide-receiver, explained that the agency still had open cases and special interests where the Russian mob was concerned. The last thing they needed was a former FBI agent – and one with the recent history of Renee Walker at that – striding in and screwing up years of work for them. So when Renee went back under, the FBI had requested that Director Hastings keep them updated.

He had. Right up until the op concluded.

But the FBI wasn't satisfied relying solely on information from CTU. Not with sensitive operations in progress. Not with the possibility of having Vladimir Laitanan back out in the open after being underground for five years.

At that point, Agent Rivers placed a laptop in front of her. Chloe glanced at the screen as it came to life and frowned at one of several images he brought up on the display. As the implication set in, she looked up and interrupted him_._

"_You were shadowing our op?"_

"_Shadowing is too strong a word, Director O'Brian," Rivers said, "Let's just say that aside from monitoring our own operations, we kept our eyes on yours from a respectful distance."_

"_You were shadowing our op," she repeated firmly. "Why?"_

"_To protect our own," Agent Jackson jumped in, his tone crisp and unapologetic, "To make sure our people and our operations weren't compromised. Now, perhaps can we continue? We have a lot more to cover before you see Walker."_

Chloe remembers sitting back in her chair and crossing her arms then, stewing while Agent Rivers continued to explain.

While CTU was crippled by the EMP, the NSA and FBI had stepped up their respective operations. After all, with unsecured nuclear rods on American soil – and in Manhattan, no less – they had to prepare for an imminent radiological attack. But the Bureau was also still monitoring the Russian syndicates and the teams assigned to them had stepped up their surveillance, watching for any effects of CTU's undercover op.

Rivers had hesitated then and Chloe had not missed the look exchanged between the two FBI agents. She couldn't help but roll her eyes.

"_Look," she'd said with irritation, "You guys can cool it with the secrecy crap. I'm the Acting Director of CTU. I think you can tell me what the hell is going on."_

After another exchange of glances, Agent Jackson gave her the standard 'this is classified' spiel then gave Rivers permission to proceed.

Even before CTU's operation changed from a hunt for the rods to a hunt for Omar Hassan, things had been progressing rapidly on the FBI's front.

The Russian factions under observation were nervous and within two hours after CTU's op concluded, the FBI began seeing the initial ripples that Vladimir Laitanan's death and Sergei Bazhaev's arrest were causing within the different sections of the local Russian mob.

Some of those ripples eventually reached shores that they hadn't anticipated.

Until CTU's op, the FBI had no idea about Bazhaev's connection to the trafficking of nuclear rods. They had known his branch of the syndicate had been playing into something big; they just hadn't realized _how _big.

Chloe had grown impatient. It had been a painfully long and brutal day and the preamble was wearing on her nerves. She wasn't getting the information she needed fast enough.

"_Okay, just tell me… What does any of this have to do with Renee Walker?"_

"_We're getting there, Director," Agent Jackson replied with a chastising glance, "We're getting there."_

He took over the briefing from there.

Her anger only blossomed with every passing minute.

He explained that in the early hours of the morning, one of their surveillance teams heard whispers that a second Russian assassin was in play. But this one_ wasn't_ associated with the Russian mob. This one was Russian government-based.

The particular faction under surveillance was ordered to offer assistance if needed but were otherwise to steer clear. According to an informant, the mark was still unknown at that point but with the peace agreement negotiations still underway and one attempt already made on one of the participants, leaders from around the world suddenly became potential targets.

"_So we kept our eyes and ears open," Jackson explained, "And we ran every face we could find that was even_ remotely _connected with the Russian delegation through facial recognition. Surprisingly, it paid off. One of the men associated with the Russian Foreign Minister was a match – to surveillance photos taken during Renee Walker's original undercover op six years ago."_

_Jackson brought up a file on her screen and Chloe pressed her lips into a scowl of recognition before she even saw the photos. "Pavel Tokarev."_

"_Yes. Former Russian intelligence. Here under a diplomatic passport as I'm sure you know by now. Obviously, with that status and his presence inside the UN, we were limited in our options. But considering the fact that there was an assassin out there potentially gunning for a high-level target, we placed him under immediate surveillance to monitor him as best we could."_

Jackson clicked another button and they went deeper into the file.

They had put a two-man team on Tokarev and they followed him whenever he left the sanctuary of the UN complex. It turned out that early this morning, he wound up at the exact location that Dana Walsh had directed Jack and his team to in their search for President Hassan.

_Chloe had nodded then. "Renee said he was dressed as an EMT."_

"_She recognized him?"_

"_She thought he looked familiar but she couldn't place him beyond a possible connection to Laitanan. She was shot before she could go any further with it. She said he was dressed as an EMT," she repeated, not even trying to keep the biting sarcasm from seeping into her tone, "Didn't your people think that was, gee, I dunno… odd?"_

"_That did catch their attention, as a matter of fact. Especially when they realized that he was there where Hassan – who had already been the target of a previous assassination attempt – was found dead. According to our team's report, after arriving, Tokarev went up to the floor where your team was located and came right back down a few minutes later. At that time, we thought Hassan was still the target and that once Tokarev made sure he was dead, he left. _

"_It wasn't until after he left the scene that we realized what his goal was."_

Jackson brought up an audio file.

"_He made phone contact with someone after leaving the site," he stated, "Audio surveillance was able to pick up his side of the conversation."_

He clicked on the file to start the playback and Chloe listened to the brief, one-sided and static-filled audio. It quickly became clear that while Renee had only vaguely recognized Tokarev at the time, Tokarev had not only recognized her but made the connection to Laitanan's group.

"_Samir's men are all dead thanks to the Americans. Samir was the only one left but I took care of him... Maybe not. There was a woman there who might have recognized me... She may be CTU, I'm not sure but I've seen her face before… Six years ago when we were using that mobster Vladimir Laitanan to smuggle military weapons out of the country. She was with him… I don't forget faces… In a cab just ahead of me. With Jack Bauer… I don't think so, no… Better not to take the chance… I'll take out Bauer too, while I'm at it… It will take even less time if this woman remembers me… What are my orders?"_

"_It didn't take much for us to figure out he was talking about Walker," Jackson said, stopping the audio. _

"_And who was he talking to?" Chloe asked, "Novakovich?"_

"_We didn't know at first, but yes, eventually, we determined it was Mikhail Novakovich."_

"_And_ both _Jack and Renee were targets…" She had frowned as the understanding set in. _

_Jack had been lucky. _

_Renee had not._

"_So it would seem," Jackson replied before continuing on, "We followed Tokarev to Bauer's apartment and, after some careful discussion about how to handle the situation, we split our team. One of our men stayed outside and waited for Tokarev – who had entered the building across from Bauer's a few minutes earlier. The other went in to Bauer's apartment building with the intention of warning Bauer and Walker. Unfortunately, we were too late. He was still in the lobby when Bauer raced through it carrying Walker. She'd already been shot."_

As everything continued to sink in, it took a moment for Chloe to get past her rage enough to form coherent sentences. The 'conversation' that followed was heated and intense and unpleasant.

"_You_ knew! _And you… You didn't call? You didn't… Dammit! Why didn't you immediately inform CTU that there was an assassin shadowing them? We could've prevented this! This whole thing could've been taken care of with one phone call! We wouldn't have had to 'send in' anyone! One phone call and they could've taken precautions!"_

"_Look," Jackson said curtly, "Director Hastings told us that Walker was working with CTU on a provisional basis for the undercover op. Her official dealings with you were over after the Laitanan debacle, weren't they? So informing you wasn't at the top of our list of priorities at that particular moment."_

"_She was helping us with the Hassan operation!"_

"_Officially? Because my understanding was that she was assisting of her own volition. Informally."_

"_The president requested -" _

"_Jack Bauer's assistance, Director O'Brian. Walker was there… Hell, I'm not even sure why Walker was there at this point, except to assist Bauer in an informal capacity. For that matter, Bauer's involvement with CTU was also provisional. He was more of a free-lancer, wasn't he? So again, at the time, informing CTU wasn't our priority."_

"_That's bullshit and we both know it! But even if it _was_ a valid point, why didn't you go in immediately? It sounds to me like you had time! You could've gotten to Jack and Renee before Tokarev took that shot! For that matter, you could've detained Tokarev himself and -"_

"_There were diplomatic issues that had to be weighed and considered, Director."_

She had been about to tell him to screw diplomatic issues but then he used the 'Director' title again, reminding her – by accident or design – of her station.

"_I'm sure you understand," he went on, "that given his status, we couldn't just walk in there and place him under arrest. We were walking a fine line having him under surveillance as it was."_

Not for the first time since the call from Tim Woods that promoted her, Chloe was reminded why she shouldn't be in this position. She'd never really cared about the bureaucratic or diplomatic games nor the political quagmires or boundaries. But she'd always cared about Jack and, in the hours she'd known her, she had come to care about Renee. And she cared about how this whole nightmare could've been avoided.

"_Getting back to Bauer and Walker…" agent Rivers said, taking the opportunity to pick up the briefing again, "We knew he'd take her to the closest hospital so we contacted them and -"_

"_Why?" Chloe demanded._

"_These people wanted Walker dead, O'Brian," Agent Rivers replied with thinly-veiled condescension, "The moment they realized she wasn't – and that would've been pretty damned immediate – what do you think they would have done? Walk away? Not in this lifetime. They would have gone after her again. It would've taken them less than five seconds to determine which hospital Bauer had taken her to. Renee Walker never would've made it out of the operating room alive if it wasn't for us."_

_Jackson held up a hand as if to stop his subordinate from getting too off track. "Bearing all that in mind," he said calmly, "We got patched through to the trauma surgeon just before Bauer brought her in. And we put a protection protocol into place."_

_Chloe shook her head. "Why go through the trouble?"_

"_She's a U.S. citizen and former FBI agent." _

_She had glared at him. "One you no longer trusted to act in the best interests of the FBI. One your people tossed aside over a year ago."_

"_We weren't going to just let the Russians assassinate her on U.S. soil, Director," Jackson countered, "Especially if it had something to do with her work with us. Not if we could stop it."_

"_Well you didn't. Stop it."_

"_I'll remind you that she's not dead," Agent Jackson stated grimly, "At least… Not yet."_

He went on, explaining his instructions to the surgeon to do everything necessary to pull Walker through but to let the world outside that O.R. believe she was dead. He also ordered them to provide him with updates every fifteen minutes and he had placed two agents outside the operating room doors.

"_We did what we could to protect her," he finally concluded._

"Protect her?" _Chloe countered harshly, unable to stop herself from launching to her feet, "You risked her life by delaying treatment!"_

"_It was less than four minutes, Director. I was assured -"_

"_Less than – A lot can happen in four minutes, Agent Jackson! A lot of damage can be done! Irreversible damage! I'm not even a doctor and I know that!" _

"_The surgical team was instructed to minimize what risks -" _

"_You delayed life-saving treatment!" she reiterated sharply, "And you did it because this whole thing was about territory for you! It's no secret that the FBI isn't exactly fond of CTU but you were obligated to inform us that there was a potential terrorist threat! Never mind informing NSA or Homeland – which you also should've done and I also know you couldn't have done or I'd know all of this already!"_

"_We didn't see it as a terrorist threat, Director. We saw it as a potential assassination of -" _

"_Which is exactly why you should've kept us in the loop! And NSA! And Homeland! And god forbid you notify the Secret Service or UN Security that the President and other diplomats might have been in danger! The sheer number of regula -" _

"_We did it to save her life and keep her safe," Jackson interrupted her, annoyance seeping into his tone, "And we succeeded. Are you going to tell me you're pissed about that?"_

"_I'm pissed because you failed to notify us that Jack Bauer and Renee Walker were targets, Agent Jackson! And that you led CTU to believe Renee Walker was dead! We kept you informed! You owed us the same courtesy!"_

"_What do you think we're doing here?" Rivers cut in, "You're being informed."_

_Chloe turned to him with a sarcastic smirk. "A little late there, don't you think?" _

"_Look," Jackson said with a sigh, "As close to death as Walker was at the time, there was no point in telling anyone she was alive until we were sure she'd at least survive the surgery – which, I'll point out wasn't until just over an hour ago. If she hadn't survived, we wouldn't even be having this conversation."_

_She snorted and glowered back at him. "Do you have any idea, any idea at all what you unleashed with this?"_

"_She survived, Director. That's the bottom line, here."_

"_And that's where you couldn't be more wrong! That's not the bottom line! Not remotely!"_

"_You're talking about Jack Bauer," Jackson guessed._

"_Yes. I'm talking about Jack Bauer! None of what happened after you had Renee Walker declared dead had to happen! The Russians' involvement in everything could've been exposed in some other way! President Taylor's presidency might have been spared. People wouldn't be dead! Jack Bauer wouldn't have been hunted like a criminal. And President Logan -"_

"_All unfortunate developments, we agree. But you don't know that-"_

_Her eyes widened in disbelief. "Unfort- Unfortunate developments?"_

Chloe had to stop speaking then, knowing she would, in all likelihood, come to regret whatever she said next.

The FBI had pulled a shit move and she was furious.

She's _still _furious. In fact, she can't recall the last time she's felt so livid.

Not even with Morris.

Rivers had taken her sudden silence as an opportunity to continue and he began explaining how, after shooting Renee, Tokarev had eluded their man and made it back to the U.N.; and how the diplomatic issues involved with his location made it all the more prohibitive for them to get to him, but that they were working on a way to bring him in.

Jack got to him before they could put it all together.

She learned that the next time Tokarev went out they'd lost him three blocks from where his beaten and disemboweled body was eventually found; and how in the wake of all of that, the FBI had begun to realize what Chloe had already known and the world was beginning to learn: that the Russians had not only funneled nuclear materials to Hassan's enemies but were also responsible, at least in part, for his death; and, on top of that, that the ensuing cover-up was one in which the nation's highest office was complicit.

Finally, Jackson began explaining that for the foreseeable future, the FBI would be leaving a small, rotating team of agents posted outside Renee's door and at various points within the hospital for her protection. There would also be another agent in place for the purpose of acting as medical proxy and briefing Renee if and when she came to.

This, Chloe had instantly understood.

Although Tokarev and Novakovich were dead, Renee was still a witness to the Russian's involvement in the day's events. She could verify the link between Tokarev and Mehran's death and from there all the subsequent links would only become more solid. Even if that wasn't enough to concern the Russians, there was nothing stopping them from trying to get to Renee out of spite or retribution if nothing else should they find out she survived.

But Chloe also understood Renee would now be a target for a different reason. It was the same reason Kim and Teri were now targets:

Renee was clearly important to Jack.

For that reason alone, Chloe hadn't argued with having FBI protection in place – at least for the time being.

The briefing had drawn to a close fairly quickly after that and from there, Chloe had been led to a meeting with the medical team supervising Renee's care. The lead trauma surgeon on the case, an African American man in his forties, did most of the talking.

As if sensing her ire, he immediately apologized for the way the situation had unfolded saying that if it was any consolation, his staff hadn't been happy about it, either. It wasn't any consolation and she'd told him as much before crisply instructing him to get on with his report.

Still steaming, Chloe caught only phrases at first, but she quickly managed to regain her focus.

He explained the call he'd received from the FBI – the gist of which matched the FBI's story. They were given no reason or explanation and were left to assume Renee was a key witness in some high-stakes FBI operation.

He told her that they had immediately placed a chest tube to begin draining the blood from Renee's right lung and attached her to a monitor that would record and display her heart rate and oxygen levels in a separate operating room once they disconnected the ones in the room she already occupied. They did all of this even as the anesthesiologist sedated her.

The anesthesiologist had stepped forward then, briefly explaining the agents and protocols she used to slow Renee's circulation and breathing to a crawl while the others frantically worked to try to stabilize her. It was a calculated risk, and one that required a delicate balance of factors be maintained, but she'd felt it might be manageable as long as the time factor was strictly controlled as well.

The trauma surgeon picked up again from there, sharing how they informed the man who brought her in that her injury had been fatal. They gave him a brief moment with her while they finished prepping the second OR and monitored her as closely as they could from there. Because of the extreme urgency of the overall situation and the time-sensitive issues related to the anesthetics, one of the nurses on the team was sent in to basically push the man out under the guise of moving the body to the morgue and trying to find her next of kin.

They further distracted him by sending in another staff member with a change of clothes for him while a team of surgical staff transported Renee – not to the morgue, but to another surgical suite where everything was already waiting to begin surgery.

He had paused then, ostensibly to give her a chance to ask questions but for a long moment, all she could think was: _God help you all when Jack finds out. _She quickly found herself having to amend that thought. _**If**__ he finds out._

Finally, she managed to think past it all enough to ask how the delay in treatment might affect the outcome – because if it had any negative impact whatsoever on Renee's situation she'd make sure heads would roll. The surgeon glossed over the answer. He did assure her, however, that the man who brought Renee in effectively saved her life by getting her there so quickly after the trauma, providing them with the crucial minutes needed to make it all work.

With that, he, along with occasional input from the rest of the team, began filling her in on the surgery itself.

The trauma to Renee's body from the single rifle round had been extensive but contrary to what she and Jack had been told, the arterial damage Renee had sustained hadn't been insurmountable. But it was still a major problem and still one that had resulted in severe blood loss.

As the bullet had entered her body, it immediately struck the xiphoid process at the lower end of her sternum, sending bone fragments into her right lung, causing blood to begin accumulating within it. Somehow, it narrowly missed causing fatal injury to the two major blood vessels that would've been in its original path. It had, however, managed to strike both her diaphragm and her liver before coming to a stop near her spine.

The process of removing the round and repairing the damage had been both lengthy and intricate.

By the time it was all said and done, the trauma team had spent just over nine hours in the operating room working to save her life. A vascular surgeon had been brought in to repair the arterial injury then she and the trauma surgeon worked to repair the damage to Renee's diaphragm and liver and the other incidental injuries along the bullet's path. And finally, when it appeared all the immediate and life threatening dangers had been addressed, a neurosurgeon was called in to assist with removing the round and repairing the damage near her spine.

The stress of it all had nearly been too much for Renee's body to handle. Her heart had stopped twice while she was still on the operating table and had threatened to do it at least once more since. But in the end, she had somehow survived the surgery and was officially listed in critical condition in the ICU under the name Jane Doe per FBI request.

It was at that point that the team began discussing Renee's current condition. Their overall assessment was as grim as their expressions.

Among other things, they had been unable to wean Renee from the ventilator immediately after the surgery and she was already showing early signs of kidney failure; the former wasn't entirely unexpected, the latter was a probable result from the acute blood loss she'd suffered. Though she'd already received several units of blood – and would likely need several more – and though she had received a large amount of IV fluid to replace what volume she'd lost, they were still having difficulty maintaining her blood pressure.

They'd also inadvertently discovered a large bump on the back of her head, which they assumed she'd sustained as she went down after being shot or while in transit to the hospital. While the CT scan had been negative for brain injury, they'd have to wait and see if there were any affects of that injury as well.

Ultimately, they couldn't be sure what long-term deficits, if any, Renee might suffer from until she comes around, but they uttered phrases like, "…risk of paralysis..." and "…extremely high risk for infection…" and "potentially serious long term consequences…"

If all that wasn't enough to convince Chloe how dire things were for Renee, the understanding settled in quickly once she was finally allowed to see her.

In fact, her first glimpse of the woman almost made her glad she didn't know where Jack was. If he came in and Renee didn't survive, then he'd have come in only to find her still dead and himself in custody – or worse – and that would be only adding more misery to an already miserable situation.

For her part, she hasn't left the room since she was ushered in two hours ago. There's still no change in Renee's condition; her anger still simmers; and her brain hasn't stopped spinning.

It had taken her some time to work out a way to use CTU's resources to begin her own, private and more bona fide and scrutinizing search for Jack without any record of it being logged; the moment she did, she had another problem to negotiate.

The semi-paranoid notion that she could very well be under some sort of surveillance had already taken root in the back of her mind. After all, getting caught trying to help Jack by smuggling the evidence past Pillar and a slew of federal agents a few hours ago hadn't escaped notice. It was that understanding that prompted her to forego using her cell phone or the phone in the hospital room and take the risk of borrowing a nurse's cell to call Arlo at home.

In spite of the fact that, like her, he'd probably been up for close to forty hours at that point, he still sounded wired when he answered. She had hesitated only a moment before explaining – in a few, carefully worded sentences – what she needed him to do. Thankfully, he'd gotten the idea and agreed without an argument after her curt, "I'll explain later, just do it… please."

She's spoken to him once more since then. So far, he's found nothing, but it's still early. And though he just promised her he'd spend the night there, sleeping at the terminal while the new programs run their search, Chloe finds herself debating the idea of sending him home once he has them all up and running. She can wait at the terminal just as easily as he can and if something gets flagged she wants to be on it immediately.

Still, she frowns at the idea. They're_ both_ exhausted. And they need to be fresh and alert or they'll risk missing something.

Over the next few minutes, she contemplates whether to go home to try to sleep or spend the night at Renee's bedside or head back into CTU. Finally, she moves back over to the bed, intent on sticking it out here. Not only is she certain that's what Jack would want but she also can't rid herself of the nagging worry about Renee's safety in spite of the FBI presence outside the door.

She looks down at Renee's face – pale, yes, but also more peaceful than she can recall seeing it in the short time she's known her. She's not sure that's a good thing.

She shifts her gaze to Renee's hand and it strikes her that she's been here for two hours and she hasn't even dared to touch her yet.

If asked, she'd probably reply by saying that she has been afraid of jarring some sensitive equipment. Or, in spite of the fact that they've said she's not feeling any pain right now, that she's been afraid of hurting her somehow. If she's to be completely honest however, it's mostly because she's just not that into touching.

But it occurs to Chloe at this moment that maybe that's what _Renee_ needs.

And so carefully, gently, she reaches down and grasps Renee's hand where it rests trapped against the mattress. It feels too warm and limp in her grip and she squeezes it firmly.

"Fight, Renee," Chloe implores quietly, "Jack needs you to fight."

At that moment, her cell vibrates in her pocket. She reaches for it with her free hand without hesitation, hoping it's Jack even as she knows how unlikely that is.

When she glances at the caller-ID, she sees Kim Bauer's name on the display and frowns.

She's not looking forward to this conversation.

Last night, in the minutes after they'd both last spoken with Jack, President Taylor had called her at CTU, likely knowing she wouldn't have another chance to do so. Beyond the president voicing her appreciation for Chloe's efforts in locating him, they did not discuss Jack. Instead, the woman informed Chloe of her discovery of Jack's message to Kim on the data card that was confiscated from her and assured her that she would be sending a copy of it as soon as the Attorney General cleared it.

She hopes whatever he has to say in the recording will help Kim accept and deal with what's happened. But she doubts it.

And it's not going to help her right now, anyway.

Since Jack disappeared, she's had two priorities; giving him the time and space he needs to vanish completely and devising the protection protocol for Kim and her family. Before she left CTU, she passed the latter task off to Cole – who, for the time being and on her authority, is being allowed to stay in place.

She knows that by morning, that will change. Division will override her decision and he will likely be suspended and his privileges at CTU revoked while the investigation into his actions with Dana and Jack continues. He'll no longer have access to their resources, making any further involvement in the protection protocol difficult.

The moment that happens however, she'll have another task for him.

In the meantime, she's sent at least one text message and left several urgent voicemails for Kim in the past few hours and only now is she getting back to her.

As her cell vibrates again, she releases Renee's hand, takes a deep breath in an effort to steel herself and steps over to the window to take Kim's call.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks to everyone who's reading and especially to those who've taken the time to share your thoughts on this story with me! If I haven't PM'd a reply to you – either because your PM function is disabled or because you don't have an account/weren't signed in – please know that your feedback is _very much appreciated_!

Enjoy…

* * *

><p><em><strong>February 28 <strong>_

_**10:37 pm**_

Jack steps through the door and surveys the claustrophobically-small space in front of him.

Two sets of narrow bunk beds sit on either side of the room with a small desk and chair situated along the wall between them. A small cube of a refrigerator lives on the floor on one side of the desk, a wastepaper basket on the other. A simple alarm clock sits on the desk next to the lamp and a bundle of linen rests on each of the four unmade beds. Two sets of lockers have been built into the walls at the foot of each set of bunks and a small, bare light bulb is fixed into the wall above the head of each bed.

Basic. Spartan. Cold.

"This is fine," he says over his shoulder to the older, bearded and barrel-chested man waiting in the corridor behind him, "Thanks."

"Toilets and showers are down the way to the left," comes the deep, gravelly reply, "You know where to find me if you need something."

Jack waits for the door to close behind him then turns and locks it. Slowly stepping over to the bunk on his left, he drops the heavy duffle bag on the thin mattress of the lower bed and props his forehead to rest against the metal railing of the top bed.

He stares down at the duffle bag, his body tremulous, his breathing harsher than it should be, exhaustion occupying every cell of his body. He desperately wants to lay down and close his eyes for a while but he doesn't, well aware of what images will haunt him when he does.

In the end, the opportunity Jim presented him with had been his best option. His old friend had been right. It quickly gets him out of the country and off the radar and that's the most important thing right now.

While getting past the heightened port security and avoiding the various cameras along the way had presented a challenge for him, finding _The Ophelia_ and locating Quentin Tucker had been relatively easy.

In the few minutes that they'd spoken, he and the captain had sized each other up quickly.

Jim has chosen his accomplice well. An older, burly former Navy man, Tucker is clearly a don't ask, don't tell type of guy, seeming to understand that the less he knows about Jack – or John West, according to the ID currently in use – the better. The man seems engaging without being intrusive and evidently recognizes that, though he has the capacity to be, he is not a threat to him.

Jack has also gotten the sense that this isn't the first time Tucker's helped someone out in this way. He seemed to have ideas and plans already in place just in case Jack showed up.

As far as anyone else on the ship will know, John West is just one more hired hand, albeit one whose assigned duties will keep him away from most of the rest of the crew. He's not sequestered by any stretch, but nor will he be forced into an overabundance of interactions with others unless it's by his own choosing. And for the most part, that's just fine with him.

He blinks slowly and swallows hard, his eyes heavy and his mouth noticeably dry.

He knows what is coming. He's been here enough times over the years to know that this – this lull, this lack of urgency and pending crisis – is when it gets dangerous for him. Because now he's going to have an abundance of something he's lacked throughout a day as devastatingly insane as today was:

Time.

In these hours alone, there will be too much time to go over every detail of what's happened; too much time to dwell on things and analyze and overanalyze every move made; too much time to make sure every possible scenario was addressed and that he hadn't missed something crucial.

There will be too much time to consider reasons, explanations and connections and to assign and accept blame.

There will be too much time to think and to feel.

He also knows that while he can't avoid it forever, he can try to put it all off for as long as possible. And for now, there are still things he should be doing. There are still distractions to be had.

In spite of the IV fluids given to him by the EMTs, he knows he's dehydrated. And he can tell he's running a fever. Nothing dangerous, he thinks, but enough to know he should address it.

He should shower. He should clean and dress his wounds. He should find something to eat. He should make the bed. He should take the antibiotics and pain medication. He should get his ass onto the soft bunk in front of him and...

…try to sleep.

But right now, it's taking all the energy he can muster just to stand here and stare down at the duffle bag.

A few long moments later however, the unrelenting throbbing in his chest that's been demanding that it be addressed finally drives him to move.

Slowly exhaling, he pushes away from the metal cooling his head and reaches down to his ankle to retrieve the knife secured there. Fighting through another wave of vertigo, he moves over to open the set of lockers closest to him and studies the base. Then, using the knife, he pries up part of the thin metal flooring of both lockers to expose the compartments below. He stashes the passports, IDs, money and the manila envelope Jim gave him in the first compartment and the phone, the guns, their holsters, clips and ammunition in the second. After popping the floors back into place, he moves to the other two lockers and does the same there, hiding the electronics kit and the surveillance package.

When he's done, he slides the knife and its holster under the nearest mattress and unpacks the rest of the bag. He places the medical supplies on the floor of the first locker and his messenger bag and the clothes on the floor of the second, the small laptop on the third and the duffle bag and the rest of its contents on the floor of the fourth.

He arranges all of it in a way that will tell him if they've been disturbed.

The moves are automatic for him and he performs them without having to fully engage his brain. And all the while, his body complains.

Finally, he moves over to unlock the door and pulls it open. As he turns to pull it closed behind him, his eyes fall on the bed again. He stares at it for another long moment and it invites him to collapse onto it.

For a moment, he considers it.

Then he closes his eyes without thinking.

And she is kneeling over him, her eyes dark with concern for him as she reassured him that he was okay, that the bullets hadn't penetrated his vest.

She is lying in a ditch, the plastic sheet he'd tossed over her unable to mask the panic in her eyes as he tossed pile after pile of dirt onto her.

She is standing in front of him after they found Hassan, her eyes – more blue than green in that moment – empathetic as she tried to assure him he'd done everything he could.

Then she is naked and astride him, gazing down at him with a level of trust in her passion-filled eyes that overwhelmed him.

And then…

Then she's in his arms, bloodied and gasping, her eyes glassy with pain and shock.

He opens his eyes, the thick emotion rising into his throat, threatening to suffocate him. Jaw tight, he swallows it down, his chest shaking with the effort.

He gives the bed one more glance before lowering his gaze and moving out into the hall, closing the door behind him.

* * *

><p><em><strong>February 28 <strong>_

_**10:42 pm **_

Climbing out of the back seat of a taxi cab, FBI agent Janis Gold grabs the bag holding her laptop, pays the fare and starts making her way toward the hospital entrance.

She glances at her watch and blows the air from her lungs. 10:42 pm.

The past thirty hours have already been long and stressful and something tells her that's not about to change.

It all began yesterday evening for her.

She'd just wrapped up a protocol at the D.C. office and was getting ready to head home for the day when she'd overheard her boss, Gordon Wilcox talking to someone on a phone in the bullpen.

It had been the mention of Renee Walker's name that had drawn her attention. She lingered nearby, listening to what she could of the conversation, but it wasn't until Gordon got off the phone and she pressed him for information that she learned that CTU in New York had requested Renee Walker's FBI file.

Not long after that, they also learned that CTU had sent Renee on an undercover assignment.

Janis hadn't left the office for some time after that. Instead, she stayed and personally began monitoring the hourly updates from the New York office. She even managed to access CTU's servers in the hope of getting more detailed information.

The mere idea of Renee back undercover with the same group of Russians she'd been tasked with infiltrating six years ago made her uneasy from the moment she heard about it.

She'd read the unclassified version of Renee's final debrief on that initial operation shortly after its completion. She was aware that the assignment had gotten rough for her, particularly near the end. Though she'd never been able to confirm the specific details and Renee would never discuss it with her, Janis had long ago drawn her own conclusions about what wasn't included in that final report.

She'd guessed that 'rough' hadn't really begun to describe it.

With everything Renee's been through in the last year and a half, Janis hadn't been sure her friend and former colleague was ready for an operation of that scale and importance, let alone one that involved the notoriously secretive and violent Russian mob. Then it occurred to her that maybe it was just what Renee needed to get back on track. She couldn't decide and it made her nervous for her on more than one level.

She hadn't gone home until well after midnight and even then only after she saw the report that outlined the result of CTU's op.

She shouldn't have bothered going home at all.

The whole thing had not only reignited her worry for Renee but also sparked a renewed contemplation of all that's happened over the last eighteen months. With her brain working overtime, she hadn't been able to sleep.

The flash about Renee's shooting and subsequent death hadn't come across her computer screen until late this morning.

It had _stunned_ her.

Half out of desperate hope that the report was wrong and half out of fear that it wasn't, she'd dug deeper for details, once again accessing CTU's servers as well as all the FBI reports she could find.

Though she couldn't put her finger on exactly what it was that bothered her, it wasn't long before she felt something was… off. After further investigation, she finally made a call to a contact in the New York office who was in a position to share what hadn't made it into the reports and she called in a favor. It took resorting to serious blackmail to get even the vaguest hint of a confirmation of her suspicions. Even then, it wasn't anything concrete, merely something she'd heard in the man's voice. Or maybe it was just something she wanted to hear so badly she convinced herself it was there.

Still, it was enough that she'd gone to Gordon Wilcox.

Gordon had been transferred to the DC branch in the days after Larry was killed and Renee was removed from her position. He'd not only known and respected both of them professionally but had known and liked them personally as well – in spite of what happened with Renee in the end. Janis knew he was a little more sympathetic to what had happened than others might have been and she went to work, pressing him to look into it. He eventually buckled and called the SAC in the New York office, arguing more fiercely than she'd ever seen him argue in order to get the story.

Once they learned the gist of what had happened and that the Bureau had people in place at the hospital, Janis immediately put in a formal request to assist them. After presenting her case, she waited, anxiously watching for updates she knew wouldn't come.

It seemed to take forever for the request to get approved. When it was, she was on the first shuttle flight to New York.

When she landed late this afternoon, Renee was _still_ in surgery. She'd waited as long as she could but without a clear indication of how long it would be before the surgery was complete, she was forced to leave in order to make her scheduled briefing with Richard Jackson, the Special Agent in Charge of the New York branch.

She'd left her number with the lead agent at the hospital, dropped her things off at the hotel across the street, then headed to the local field office. The agent called half an hour after she arrived at the FBI to tell her Renee was out of surgery but at that point, her briefing was being delayed because the SAC was still off site. He hadn't returned until just over an hour ago and finally, she was formally briefed on the details of Renee's situation.

Now, as she makes her way through the lobby of the hospital, she draws a deep breath and fights the vaguely claustrophobic feeling that places like this can sometimes bring out in her.

Stepping into an elevator, she pushes the 'up' button and absently watches as the numbers slowly change. As she waits, she finds her thoughts drifting to the woman she's come here to see.

The _first_ time she met Special Agent Renee Walker, Janis found she had a hard time taking the woman seriously. Of all things, she realized much later, it had been Renee's quick and easy smiles and the generous sprinkling of freckles adorning her face that had been the source of the problem; they made the woman seem too young and fresh to be a serious FBI agent, much less one as high up on the ladder as she'd already managed to climb at that point.

But then… Then Janis saw her in action and all doubts were quickly set aside.

The_ last_ time she'd seen her – no, not _quite_ the last time she'd seen her – the woman was being taking into custody pending an inquiry into the events surrounding her interrogation of Alan Wilson as well as her treatment of Alan Tanner earlier in the day.

Janis had cooperated with the investigation that began the moment they'd led Renee away – but she hadn't gotten any pleasure out of it.

Under scrutiny for her own actions with Tanner, she been pressured to explain how Renee asked her to distract and delay his lawyers while she barricaded herself in his hospital room and tried to extract the information she wanted from him.

Then she'd revealed how Renee had shut off the equipment that was recording and monitoring Wilson and demanded that she leave; and how, when she refused to walk away, Renee disabled the locking mechanism to the observation room's door then held a gun on her and made her cuff herself to a pole. Finally, she shared how Renee had laid down her badge and stepped into the holding room.

Janis had watched the first few minutes of the interrogation through the one-way window like it was a bad dream. _Never_ would she have thought Renee capable of what she'd seen her do in that room.

The sound of the butt of Renee's gun smashing into the fingers that she held trapped against the metal table was bad enough; the scream of pain and protest that act had elicited was worse.

And it only got more intense and more… horrific from there.

She watched the man struggle to breathe under the pressure Renee applied against his windpipe.

She'd heard the faint snapping sound of that first bone in Wilson's other hand snapping under the bending and twisting force Renee applied with her bare hands.

At some point, she'd seen Renee's gun make contact with the side of Wilson's face, instantly breaking bone and drawing blood.

Through it all, she'd barely recognized the woman performing those actions. It was like… like she'd become someone else entirely.

There had come a point when it had gotten to be too much and Janis had been forced to look away. Still, she couldn't escape the screams of pain that so easily pierced the glass and made it into the observation room she was trapped in.

Ten minutes after Renee began her interrogation, Tim Woods arrived outside the observation room's door. It took another ten minutes for him and whoever was accompanying him to not only realize something was wrong but then to find a way to open the door. By the time they did, Renee had already fired the gunshots that took out Wilson's knees one by one, ensuring he'd never walk again.

It had been that final move, those gunshots, that had finally gotten Renee what she had been looking for.

Though he had adamantly denied knowing anything of the other members of his group up to that point, after the first bullet destroyed his left knee, he finally admitted that he'd vetted each and every one of them.

For reasons she can only speculate on however, Wilson had clammed up again after that. Maybe it was the pain. Maybe he realized that security was trying to get in and he hoped they'd stop Renee from going any further. It didn't really matter, because after the gunshot that took out his right knee, he spilled names and contact points and procedures.

Ultimately, Renee had broken Wilson, both literally and figuratively.

But the cost had been high.

In the end, nothing he revealed during her interrogation could legally be used against him in terms of his prosecution.

In the end, as the remaining members of the ring were apprehended, prosecutors ran into a similar problem in trying to indict and prosecute those men and women.

And in the end, Renee's stellar career with the FBI was over.

The ding of the elevator abruptly brings Janis back to the present and she draws a deep breath and exhales, trying to rid herself of some of the tension that has built up in her body over the past few hours. Then, she pushes her glasses up on her nose, straightens the jacket of her suit and steps off the elevator.

Striding purposefully down the hall, she flashes her badge at the nurses' station where she is promptly directed to the room of Jane Doe.

"Jane Doe," she mutters under her breath with some annoyance. She still can't believe it.

Nodding to the agent positioned outside the room, she flashes her badge once more, waiting while her identity and access is verified, taking a few more deep breaths to brace herself. Finally, she slides open the glass door and pushes aside the curtain just beyond it.

Her first glance at the figure on the bed startles her.

"Oh my God," she breathes as she steps into the room, "Renee…"

She's read the latest updates and she's spoken at length with SAC Jackson. She thought she had prepared herself – but this is much worse than she anticipated.

"Janis?"

At the unexpected and distantly familiar voice calling her name, Janis shifts her gaze and discovers Chloe O'Brian standing by the only window in the room with a cell phone to her ear.

She frowns.

Jackson had explained that as Acting Director O'Brian had been brought in on this and that she'd been unhappy with the way the FBI had dealt with the situation. After the day she must've had, Janis hadn't expected her to still be here and by the expression darkening her face, it's clear that the woman isn't exactly overjoyed to see her.

"Kim," Chloe says stiffly into her phone, her eyes still on Janis, "I'm going to have to call you back."

Sliding the door and the curtain back into place, Janis steps further into the room as the other woman disconnects the call.

"Hello, Chloe," she says with a small nod as she sets her bag down on a chair by the door.

Rather than return the greeting, Chloe glowers at her and steps toward Renee as if to protect her. "What are you doing here?" she demands, her anger coming through loud and clear.

"I heard what happened," Janis explains calmly. She shifts her eyes back to Renee, still taken aback by what she sees. "I knew we were placing agents on site and I requested to be loaned to the New York office to be a part of it."

"Why?"

Janis looks back at Chloe in open surprise. "You have to ask?"

"Yes," Chloe replies curtly, shoving her phone into a pocket. "And you have to answer."

Janis bristles at that but she does her best to stay civil. After all, when they'd last seen each other after Chloe's final debriefing in D.C., she thought they had parted on decent terms. She can only assume it's the situation itself that's sparking Chloe's cool and angry response.

"The FBI wants to -"

"No," Chloe cuts her off, "I know why the FBI is here. Why are _you_ here?"

Janis' jaw tightens as she studies Chloe for a long moment. She appears even more tense and tired than she remembers. Her hair is a little different too, longer or shorter or lighter or darker, she can't really tell. Her surly attitude and dour disposition, on the other hand, don't appear to have changed one bit.

"I'm here because I asked to be here," Janis repeats firmly, stepping over to the bed. "And the Bureau agreed. They felt it would be good to have someone who knows her act as her medical proxy and to brief her when she wakes up."

"So you're here in your official capacity then." Chloe crosses her arms in front of her chest. "You know, I find it interesting that for being so intent on keeping Renee's survival a secret from everyone, people from as far away as the D.C. office know about it."

"Just my boss and I know, Chloe."

"And that's two more people who shouldn't."

"Dammit, Chloe!" Janis replies sharply before she can stop herself, "She's my friend. You know, kind of like Jack is _your_ friend?"

"Right," Chloe scoffs, "And do you always allow your friends to get into this kind of mess?"

"I could ask you the same question about Jack," Janis returns, taking a dig of her own.

She regrets the words the moment they leave her mouth but even more so when she sees Chloe's scowl deepen. This residual underlying acrimony or rivalry or whatever it is between them isn't helping anything.

"Look," she says with a weary sigh, "I'm sorry. I'm not here to argue with you or step on your toes. I'm here because I care about Renee. So can we leave it at that?"

Chloe says nothing for a long moment and Janis sees an odd flicker of uncertainty in the woman's eyes. It seems to pass once the woman glances down at Renee.

"I thought," Chloe says, her voice softening somewhat in unspoken acquiescence, "you hadn't talked to her since… Wilson."

Janis knits her brows together, curious as to how and why Chloe would know that. "Well, I haven't had an actual _conversation _with her, no," she admits finally, "I mean, I tried. After the initial legal stuff died down a bit. I called her. A lot. But…"

Her voice trails off as she lowers her gaze and shakes her head. She's made countless calls to Renee over the last eighteen months, left voicemail after voicemail and sent so many text messages and emails she's lost count of them, too. All of them have gone unanswered.

And God, had she not gone to her house that night…

"But she never returned your calls," Chloe finishes for her, interrupting her thoughts.

Janis arches a brow in surprise. Just how deeply has Chloe been digging? How much does she know?

"You're not the only one," is the only explanation Chloe seems willing to give at this point.

"Yeah, well. I never really gave up trying. And when I heard about this…"

Janis stops, looking down at Renee again. Suddenly, the image before her merges temporarily with one she'd come upon all those months ago. God, there had been so much blood…

She shakes her head again, this time in an effort to shake the image away. She doesn't want to go back there right now. Especially not with an angry Chloe O'Brian standing in front of her.

"How is she?" she asks finally.

"Not good," Chloe replies bluntly, "The bullet did its damage. And your FBI buddies' tactics probably haven't helped."

"I know. Believe me. My boss isn't happy, either." At Chloe's darkly skeptical glance, Janis explains. "Renee still has friends in the FBI, Chloe. Whether she wants us or not."

"Really? Because what those FBI 'friends' have just pulled is ridiculous, Janis! And for being such sanctimonious sticklers about following the rules…"

With that, Chloe launches into a venting session that would annoy Janis if she hadn't reacted much the same way after hearing what happened.

The list of subsequent events that could've been avoided if they had just kept Jack and CTU in the loop is neither short nor insignificant and the realization of that fact had fanned her anger as well.

Janis understands that part of it had been justified and necessary in the hope of keeping Renee safe, but they still should have advised CTU that Renee was alive long before they actually did. And they shouldn't have misled Jack at all. Just knowing what little she knew of him before today, she knows he probably would've stood outside Renee's door for an eternity if that's what it would've taken to protect her.

As Chloe continues her rant, Janis looks past all the medical equipment to study Renee.

Her face appears puffy; it's enough that it noticeably alters her features. Under the pallid complexion, she can detect the faintest shade of yellow and it makes her wonder if it's the lighting or some result of her condition at the moment.

There's also the barest of hint of shadows under her eyes and she thinks back to the even darker smudges that had taken up residence there the last time she saw her. The fact that they're still living there, even if they are much less severe, isn't a reassuring sign.

Her hair, fanned out on the pillow under her head, seems longer and so much darker than she remembers. It had been that dark years ago – after she returned to D.C. from New York and her time with the Russian mob. Just as it had then, it makes her look so different, so… pale. Then again, the blood loss and physical trauma probably have something to do with that, too.

As her eyes fall on a faint bruise on Renee's cheek, she finds herself speculating on how it got there. She wonders, briefly, if it might've happened just after Renee was shot, if perhaps her cheek struck the floor or a piece of furniture as she went down. But when she also picks up on a patchy, barely noticeable discoloration on her neck, she remembers Renee's return engagement with Vladimir Laitanan and his group and decides maybe she doesn't really want to know the how she got them after all.

"How is she, Chloe?" she asks again once it seems Chloe's diatribe is winding down.

"I'm not her doctor, Janis!" Chloe snaps. Then, as if rethinking her tone, the woman takes a deep and deliberate breath and tries again. "But she's… she's better than the FBI had us believing a few hours ago."

"I know. And for the record, I agree that they should've told you and Jack. So can we please get past that now?"

Chloe scowls at her for a long moment and Janis holds her gaze until the scowl downgrades into a frown.

"They weren't able to get her off the ventilator after surgery," Chloe grumbles finally, "And they're keeping her sedated for now. She's lost a lot of blood and they're having trouble with her kidneys and blood pressure. Plus, she's running a fever and they're worried about infection. And then there's the actual damage from the bullet." She pauses for a long moment and looks down at Renee again. "She's alive though."

Janis merely nods. She's aware of the details of Renee's injury, the multiple blood transfusions, the potential consequences from the rifle round lodging near her spine and the fact that Renee hadn't been able to hold her own without the ventilator when they tried to wean her from it.

"They want to try to get her off the ventilator again in the morning," Chloe goes on, her voice growing softer, "If she's able to maintain her breathing on her own, they say that'll tell them a lot about her status."

Again, Janis finds herself nodding. At the moment, Renee seems to be fighting to hold on and she can't help but feel grateful and relieved for that, especially given what she knows of her state of mind over the last year and a half.

"And Jack?" she asks quietly, finally addressing one of the other issues she's been curious about.

Chloe presses her lips together for a moment, a look of frustration passing on her face. "Disappeared. At this point, we're not even certain he's still alive."

Janis arches her brows. The FBI has brought her up to speed on what they know of the events that transpired after Renee's 'death.' She knows the position Jack put Chloe in and part of her has wondered how she's managed to balance her sense of duty with her loyalty and feelings of friendship for him. The other part of her has wondered if she balanced them at all.

"But you're working under the assumption that he is, right?"

Chloe rolls her eyes. "Of course. But we haven't been able to locate him since…"

She hesitates and Janis pulls her brows together. "Since?"

"Since the ambulance bringing him back to CTU was ambushed."

Janis frowns. Initially, part of her had wondered if Chloe had manufactured that ambush in order to free Jack. But then Jackson informed her that former president Logan had tapped a private security team to capture and kill Jack and she realized that Jack had been in serious trouble.

"I'm sure if anyone could've gotten out of that situation," she says quietly, "it would be Jack."

Chloe looks at her for a long moment, her expression mostly unreadable, though Janis gets the sense that she's working something out in her head.

"Even if he has," the woman says finally, "he's not going to just pick up a phone and call me to tell me that. Not after what's happened. Not with everyone looking for him. He's on the run, Janis. And if Jack doesn't want to be found, I'm pretty sure we won't be finding him."

Janis sighs, instinctively knowing she's right. "I called his cell the moment I heard what happened to Renee. It went straight to voicemail. Of course I had no idea at the time that he'd…" She stops herself. She'd nearly said 'completely snapped' but something tells her going there with Chloe might not be a good idea right now. "Well, I had no idea what he was doing out there."

Chloe looks at Janis with skeptical surprise. "_You…_ called… _Jack_?"

"Yeah," Janis shrugs, "I've spoken to him several times since…" Again, she hesitates, suddenly unsure of which event to use as a reference. Wilson? The suicide attempt? Her release from the hospital? The abrupt move to New York? The scattered updates since then? Finally, she settles on a safe one. "Well, since his stem cell transplant. Why?"

"I'm just… surprised, that's all. From what I recall, you and Jack didn't seem to be on the best of terms."

Janis smiles sadly. Maybe Chloe doesn't know everything after all.

"Well, I wouldn't call us best friends, Chloe. But I certainly don't hate him and we've had good reason to stay in touch."

"You mean Renee."

"Yeah," she confirms, "He contacted me after he'd heard about what happened with Wilson. I knew that he'd had a couple of major setbacks after they brought him out of the coma – and from what I could tell, he was still pretty damned sick. But he'd heard about what happened and he was worried about her. He'd already tried calling her several times but couldn't reach her. Said her voicemail was always full. By the time he finally called me, she'd changed her number so I gave it to him. We've spoken several times since."

"Oh," Chloe says, turning to step back over to the window. For a long moment, she stands there, staring out at the city lights and the hotel across the street, seemingly absorbed in her own thoughts.

Without the conversation to distract her, the quiet beeping of Renee's heart monitor makes its way into Janis' awareness. She looks up at the screens fixed to the wall behind the head of the bed, watching the fluctuating data for a moment.

She doesn't need a medical degree to know that Renee's blood pressure is much lower than it should be or that the heart monitor is reflecting frequent, unexpected and odd-looking heartbeats; her training in biometrics is enough to allow for that. Unfortunately, her background in monitoring suspects during an interview doesn't give her the knowledge base to know what's causing these things to persist in Renee. Just as she's wondering what it means in terms of her status, Chloe breaks her silence.

"I just told Kim," she mumbles, her voice so quiet Janis almost doesn't hear it.

Janis glances over her shoulder at Chloe. "Jack's daughter?"

Janis had forgotten all about Jack's family. And so, apparently, had he. She may not know him very well, but from their occasional conversations she can't imagine he'd go off and willingly do something that would force him to abandon them like this – whether it's because he's dead or arrested or just plain gone.

And yet he has.

"I've been trying to reach her for the last few hours," Chloe says, turning back to face her, "She finally called back just before you got here. She had no idea about anything that's happened."

Janis steps closer to stand next to her. "Did you tell her what's going on? I mean, about what's going on with him? And what's happened with Renee?"

Chloe tosses her a sharp, irritated glance. "I didn't tell her about Renee being alive if that's what you're worried about."

"It's not, Chloe," she replies, barely able to keep from rolling her eyes. "How'd she take it?"

"Not well."

"He hasn't tried to contact her?"

Janis watches as Chloe works the muscles around her mouth for a moment. Finally, she shakes her head. "No. If he does, she'll tell him to call me, that it's important I speak to him. But I don't think he'll be calling or seeing her again."

"You don't?"

She sees Chloe struggle to hold down the emotion but tears sneak into her eyes anyway.

"He knows he can't come back to her," Chloe explains quietly, turning away from Janis again, "He's gone too far. He knows he'll be arrested. If they don't shoot and kill him first."

Janis blows the air from her lungs. "God, what a mess."

"Understatement," Chloe mutters, looking out the window.

A few seconds of awkward silence stretches into nearly half a minute and Janis searches for something to fill it.

"I heard how he took out Pavel Tokarev," she says softly, only to immediately realize 'took out' is much too mild a term for what the reports state Jack did to the man.

Chloe's profile darkens again and Janis can sense the ambivalence in her.

"And Dana Walsh," the woman supplies, her voice suddenly flat, "And the Russian Foreign Minister."

"They say he was targeting President Suvarov. And that you shot him to stop him. That… that had to be difficult for you."

"He drew his weapon. I had no choice."

"What happened to him, Chloe? I mean, I thought even Jack had a line…"

"_This_ happened to him," she replies softly, glancing over at Renee again. "One too many times."

Janis frowns. She's heard about how he'd lost his wife. She's also heard vague but telling rumors of his involvement with Audrey Raines and she's read about what happened to her. Something tells her those aren't the only losses and tragedies life has handed Jack.

"You think what happened to Renee was the final straw for him? That it sent him over the edge?"

"I don't think it's _just_ that, but I think…"

Chloe's voice trails off and she remains silent for a long moment as if lost in her own thoughts again. Finally, the woman draws a breath and looks back at Janis, studying her for a long moment. She appears to be on the brink of saying something but then she closes her mouth and turns back to the window, releasing a deep and frustrated sigh.

Janis waits to see if Chloe will finish her thought. When she doesn't, Janis changes the subject.

"You know, I was surprised to learn they made you acting Director of CTU. But after hearing what happened and how you took control… well, I can kind of see it now."

"Why were you surprised?" Chloe asks, turning back to her.

"You're an analyst, Chloe."

"Yeah, well… I'm the best they have. They finally figured that out."

Janis frowns again. In spite of the arrogance of Chloe's words, she doesn't miss the fact that the expected smugness was missing from her voice. Clearly, her heart isn't in it right now.

"I'm sorry, Chloe. I know none of this has been easy for you."

At that, Chloe rewards her with the barest hint of a smile. "Thanks."

"And you've got to be exhausted, right? Look, why don't you go home? Get some rest. Let me stay with Renee overnight. Tomorrow's going to be another long day, I'm sure."

Chloe looks back at her for a long moment then glances at Renee as if debating it.

"There's no point in both of us staying, Chloe. I promise, I'll call you if anything changes. Go home."

Finally, with another loud sigh and an expression reminiscent of a pout, Chloe nods. "Okay," she says reluctantly, "Let me give you my number."

Janis digs her cell out of her pocket and hands it to Chloe.

"I want to know the moment anything changes," the woman orders as she punches in the numbers.

"I'll call. I promise."

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 1<strong>_

_**00:07 am**_

When it finally begins, it begins with the losses.

It begins without warning, while his hand is pressing the door to the last locker closed.

It begins with a slow trickle, after a singular, poignant image flickers unbidden into his mind's eye. A flash of a young girl with long blond hair running up to him, a white stuffed polar bear clutched in her tiny hand. The smile on her face as she looks up at him is… angelic. She's an angel.

_Grandpa's angel._

Jack goes completely still, his breath stopping in his chest, his fingertips digging into the cool metal beneath them.

Next comes the memory of her laugh – that unmistakable, carefree giggle he's discovered to be a balm on his soul.

Soothing. Comforting.

_Healing._

He drops his head forward to rest against the locker, swallowing past the sudden tightness in his throat. He holds his breath. If he listens hard enough to the silence of the room, he can hear her laugh echoing around him now.

He wonders how long that will last.

His vision blurs as the tears finally arrive. His lips begin to tremble and he presses them together, tightening his jaw in an effort to make them stop.

He tries to push it all away again, but this time, his attempt is in vain. He's been warding it off for hours now, engaging his brain just enough to function on autopilot, but he's run out of things to distract himself.

He's made it to a relatively safe place. He has showered. He has changed his bandages, taken a double dose of the antibiotics and swallowed some Tylenol he managed to find in the ship's infirmary. He's made the bed and forced down a few bites of food he'd scavenged from the galley. He's found a few bottles of water and stored them in the fridge. And he's made certain no one has touched anything in the lockers.

There is nothing left. There are no more pressing decisions or immediate actions to take. There is no critical 'what I need to do now,' no vital 'next step.'

He can hear his own breathing echoing in the silence now.

Uneven. Rapid. Harsh.

"_You don't look like a grandpa."_

It hits him now, with the power of a freight train. He won't be watching her grow up as he promised himself he would. There will be no more trips to the zoo or the park. He won't be hugging her again. He won't be seeing her smile. He won't be hearing her laugh. Never again.

The space between his nose and upper lip is suddenly damp with sweat and he drags the back of his hand across his mouth. The shaking has spread to his hands and he balls them into fists.

It was supposed to be different with Teri. It was supposed to be _so_ different. It was supposed to be his second chance to get it right.

One of his final memories of her flitters through his mind's eye. She was excited, showing him a picture she'd drawn of their little family. She'd been so proud of it, pointing out each figure she'd drawn. Her father, herself, him, and… Kim.

"God, Kim," he rasps, thoughts of her finally being allowed to resurface.

All the promises he's made to her – and to himself – over the years…

That he'd be there for her. That he wouldn't put her in danger. That he wouldn't hurt her anymore. That the last time he let her down was the last time he'd ever let her down again.

Every time the promises went unfulfilled; every time it just became a deeper betrayal.

This time, it was supposed to be different, too. He'd sworn that to himself – and to her – while he was still in his hospital bed, recovering from the stem cell transplant.

The bond they've been able to re-establish over the last year and a half has been something he never thought he'd be able to achieve with her again. Yet he had. _They_ had.

And he had wanted that future with his family so much. He needed it.

_Desperately. _

In fact, that single, deep-seated aspiration was what led him to fight against his natural tendencies to agree to help Chloe and CTU. But then Kim had essentially forced him to confront the fact that it was what he needed to do, even if he didn't want to do it.

She had given her blessing. She'd understood. And he'd still hated it with everything in him.

Yet he'd turned away from his family and walked back into CTU anyway.

Now that it's all over and the fear of losing what is most precious to him has become a reality, he is once again leaving behind nothing but more broken promises, more pain and regret for Kim to deal with.

His nose is running now and he wipes the back of his fist beneath it before drawing a sharp breath through his nostrils – but he's finding it increasingly difficult to breathe.

He stares hard at the locker.

Teri.

Kim.

_Renee…_

His eyes close now, rebelling against his efforts to stop them. He clenches them shut as the images follow.

She is with him again… glaring up at him as he stood over her in Ziya's shop, her eyes dark and wet and defiant; sitting in a chair in Laitanan's office in shock, head hanging down, her eyes tear-filled and lost; standing across from him in her office at the FBI, serious and professional, her eyes confident and unwavering; laying on her side in his bed, a relaxed and content smile gracing her beautifully freckled face, her eyes _finally_ soft and warm…

It's that smile that lingers in his mind's eye now, that smile and those eyes and the promise of a future that he'd seen in both of them, that bring forth the first sob.

The final push against the dam, that's when the flood truly begins.

The sobs wrack his chest and his knees buckle, dropping him to the floor. The spasms that the convulsive breaths spread through his chest and the jolt that travels through his body with the fall should spark some sort of physical pain. But it's not physical pain that's consuming him right now.

He lands on his knees and curls into a ball, his forehead coming to rest against the steel floor, his fingers digging into the back of his head.

It's not the tragic downfalls or betrayals that he has witnessed today that have finally brought this on. It's not the various conspiracies, deceptions and lies nor the attempts to conceal them. It's not even the death and destruction he's violently wielded with his own hands.

It's the losses that torment him and feed his anguish.

It's the losses that shatter him.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks so much for your reviews so far! I see people are excited about a potential Jack&Renee reunion. Yay! At this point, I should probably warn you, though. This is has developed into a behemoth of a fic and we're just getting started so I'll ask you to be patient. Hopefully, you'll find the payoff worth it.

This chapter is a really short one. It probably could've been posted with the previous chapter but it seemed to want to be posted on its own.

Enjoy…

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 1 <strong>_

_**02:08 am**_

As the nurse leaves the room and pulls the door closed behind her, Janis shuts off the bright, headache-inducing overhead exam lights, leaving the room bathed in the somewhat softer light provided by the wall sconce above the sink near the window.

Dropping back into the plastic chair at Renee's bedside, she glances at the clock on the wall. She's half-surprised the staff hasn't kicked her out by now. Then again, she supposes the badge clipped to her jacket and the fact that Renee is under FBI protection factor into that.

Since she got here, she's noticed that the nurse, Jamie, has been in to check on Renee about every fifteen minutes. Sometimes, she just peeks in, checking on Renee's overall status. Other times, she checks her drains and incision, works with the IV's, gives her medications, or checks or adjusts the settings on some of the machines. Once, she brought another nurse to help her reposition Renee. Every time, Jamie records information on a clipboard and tries to give her a reassuring look.

Janis isn't sure that it's helped. Even now, as she draws a deep breath and holds it for a brief moment before releasing it, she feels the long day's events still pressing down on her.

Her gaze briefly drifts up to take in the data on the monitors. As it has been every other time she's checked, Renee's blood pressure is still too low and her heart monitor is still showing the frequent oddly-shaped extra beats. Not sure whether to feel relieved that things don't appear to be any worse or disappointed they don't seem to have improved at all, she sighs and returns her attention to Renee.

"You know," she says quietly, reaching for Renee's hand, "We've missed you back at the Bureau, Renee. _I've_ missed you. It hasn't been the same since you and Larry have been gone."

Janis stops and frowns, her thoughts once again wandering back to that day eighteen months ago – a day that, by the time it was all said and done, seemed to be about nothing but loss for the freckled FBI agent.

It was no secret to those who knew them that beyond their professional working relationship, Larry Moss and Renee Walker were close friends. There was even some occasional speculation by certain members of the bullpen as to whether or not things had progressed beyond friendship.

Janis knew the story though.

She knew that Larry had been there for Renee after she returned from being on loan to the New York branch for the Russian undercover job. She knew he spent a lot of time with her in those ensuing months, both on the job and off, supporting her and listening to her talk – or not talk, as the case may well have been.

She knew that all that time and attention eventually cost him his already shaky marriage and that he felt guilty and responsible for that. From what she knew of his wife, she was certain Larry wasn't the only party at fault in the decline and fall of the marriage, but he never asked for her opinion on it.

She knew that he also felt guilty and responsible for whatever Renee was going through – sentiments she could only guess stemmed from the fact that he'd signed off on her temporary transfer. She felt that it was all a little misplaced, but then, he'd never asked for her opinion on that, either.

Whatever happened during Renee's time away had deeply affected her. And not in a good way.

It wasn't difficult to see the changes.

Gone were her frequent and easy smiles. She was more tense and quiet, more guarded and distant. There were times, mostly in the beginning, when Janis would find her sitting at her desk staring at a paper file or her computer screen or her cup of coffee and it was clear she was a couple hundred miles away.

Even on those occasions Renee found time to get together outside of work – which were rare in those first few months after her return to D.C. – she seemed serious and preoccupied. Though she'd tried to get her friend to open up, Renee would usually shake her head and apologize for being distracted before saying she was fine. Then she'd talk about shopping or the movie they'd just seen or the newbies in Tactical or Analysis.

But no matter what Janis tried, she couldn't get her to talk about New York.

With the exception of the smiles, for the most part, over time, Renee seemed to return to her previous self – and regardless of whatever culpability he felt for his role in what happened to Renee in New York, Janis was certain Larry had been largely responsible for that.

She also knew that over time Larry's feelings for Renee had grown deeper than Renee's feelings of friendship and gratitude for him.

She had known all of this, because she had paid attention. And because once, just before his divorce was finalized, she'd overheard Larry quietly venting to someone on his cell in his office. The door was barely ajar, but as she passed by it, what she heard prompted her to stop and listen for a moment. He hadn't revealed a lot, and he certainly hadn't divulged any significant details, but it was enough that she got a better understanding of the situation.

That horrible day eighteen months ago had been long and difficult enough, and to lose Larry like they had was hard on all of them.

But for Renee…

Well, Janis suspects the consequences had run much longer and deeper for her than for the rest of them.

She also recognized that, in the span of those twenty-four intense hours, Jack Bauer had come to mean something to Renee as well; what it was exactly, Janis still isn't entirely certain but she came to learn in the months that followed that it seemed to go both ways.

At any rate, by the end of that day, Jack had been well on his way to becoming yet another casualty for Renee.

He would not be the last.

He would not be the most intrinsic.

She hadn't agreed with many of Jack's or Renee's decisions or actions during those long, brutal hours, but deep down, she's found she can't blame them for doing what they thought was best, either. Though it had taken time for her to process it all enough to see,_ really_ see and understand, that there were no easy answers or decisions to be found that day, even in the immediate aftermath she'd recognized how the circumstances complicated things.

In fact, she'd gone so far as to speak to the director of the FBI on Renee's behalf after it was over. She even managed to speak briefly with the president – who had, in the end, influenced the both the AG's and the FBI's final decisions regarding Renee's future. Though she had known that there was no way Renee could avoid losing her job, she'd hoped that something she said might help and she'd been relieved when she learned that the possibility of prison time had been taken off the table.

In the weeks that followed that decision, she'd tried repeatedly to contact Renee so they could talk.

Even when it became clear Renee wasn't going to be answering or returning her messages and emails, she kept at it. Larry would've wanted that. He would've wanted someone to try to be there for her, to keep at it with the hope that she'd eventually soften. And regardless of what had happened at the end of that day, she still considered Renee a friend.

It wasn't until a full nine weeks after Larry died – and a week or two before Thanksgiving – that Janis finally gave up on giving Renee the choice of answering the phone. She grabbed the box of things she'd been wanting to give her and drove over to her townhome.

What she found when she got there…

Janis sighs, her stomach clenching in the way it does any time she revisits that night.

She can still remember standing there, shivering in the cold, blustery night air as she rang the doorbell. When Renee didn't answer, she automatically stepped to the side and peered through a window. There were lights on in the kitchen down the hall.

She doesn't even know what sparked her to do it. Looking back, she sometimes thinks she may have heard the breaking of glass. Or maybe it was the intense sense that something was wrong. Or the empty and eerie feeling emanating from the place. Maybe it had something to do with the approaching holiday. It may even have just been the fact that she'd made the trip and she'd be damned if she was going to just let Renee continue to ignore her. Whatever it was, the next thing she knew, she was walking around the side of the townhouse and looking in windows.

When she reached the kitchen and saw the mess of shattered dishes scattered around the room, it only compounded her anxiety.

Then she saw it – a small shadow slowly creeping around the base of the small island in the center of the room. In that next instant, she realized it wasn't a shadow at all.

She was breaking the kitchen window even as she was frantically dialing 911 on her cell.

The image that greeted her as she made her way across all the broken glass and around the island seemed unreal.

The bright lights of the kitchen shone down on a growing crimson pool that was slowly crawling over the white tiles of the floor, creating paths around shards and fragments of glass and the unconscious form of her friend.

Renee was unnaturally pale. Her cheeks were hollowed and wet with tears. There were heavy, dark shadows under her closed eyes and they were accentuated by the white floor and the blood gradually spreading toward her head.

The paramedics that arrived moments later said that Renee probably first cut into her wrist just as Janis arrived. Had she gotten there even a few minutes later or waited to break in, it would've been too late.

She had waited for hours at the hospital afterward, hoping and praying that Renee would be okay. When they finally let her in to see her, Renee was still sedated. She'd stayed at her bedside for as long as the staff allowed but Renee was still out when they finally made her leave. Though she made repeated subsequent visits and calls, Renee consistently refused to see or even speak with her.

She has stubbornly persisted in that refusal ever since.

Janis has often asked herself, in the months that followed, why that night? She'd been frustrated and disappointed at Renee's lack of a response for weeks, why had she chosen _that _night to pay Renee a visit?

She has never really decided on an answer but she's often thought that Larry – if he had any influence over whatever higher being might have a say in the dealings of mortal men – may have had something to do with it.

With that thought in mind now, Janis squeezes Renee's hand, closes her eyes and sends off a silent prayer in the hope that some of that influence might once again prove invaluable.

_**March 1 **_

_**02:17 am**_

Jack sits on the cold, steel floor, his back resting against the equally cold wall. His elbows rest on his bent knees and he holds his head in his hands, staring unseeingly at the floor between his boots.

Boots that aren't his. Boots that don't quite fit.

He's been sitting here for some time now.

Empty. Simply, empty.

He is not thinking. He is not feeling. He is merely trying to breathe.

One deep and slow and painful inhalation followed by an equally long and deliberate and uncomfortable exhalation. Then he begins again.

Minutes pass uncounted and in silence, the only change in him, one of position as he tilts his head back to rest it against the wall behind him and shifts his eyes to the wall across the room.

On some level, he registers that his ass is numb; that his eyes ache; that his hands are still shaking; that his body hurts like hell.

On some level, he knows that he should get off the cold floor and onto the soft bed; that he should give in to the exhaustion and succumb to whatever restless and nightmare-filled sleep awaits him; that he should take a pain pill – or a bottle of pain pills.

But right now, it's all he can do to just sit here.

And breathe.


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks for popping in to read! And special thanks to those of you kind enough to share your thoughts!

Enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 1 <strong>_

_**06:58 am**_

"Renee!"

Jack awakens with a start, his eyes flying open, her name crossing his lips in a surge of alarm.

Though he distantly recognizes the steel walls around him, for a few long moments, there is a surreal sense of disjointedness where he is still in his apartment, lifting her off the floor, propping her up against his bed.

Even over his own labored breaths he can hear her gasping his name.

"_Jack…"_

He doesn't even have to close his eyes to see her... In his arms. Blood on her face, her eyes widened in shock, silently asking him for help, for an explanation. All while she struggles for air.

He swallows hard. The command is already forming in his mind again.

_Live._

In the rational corners of his mind, he knows this is the remnant of a nightmare and he fights to shake off the disorientation.

But she is still in front of him, her ragged breaths echoing off the walls surrounding him.

_Live, Renee. Live._

He knows it's bad; that if he waits for an ambulance, she'll be dead by the time they get there; that they might both be dead if the sniper manages to get a better line of sight. But if he can just get her to a hospital quickly enough…

_Live, live, live._

His throat constricts and he struggles for his own breath as he hears her cough.

The blood is already starting to fill her lungs. He knows it and there is nothing he can do to stop it.

_Nothing._

Growling, he presses the heels of his palms against his eyes hard enough that the image mercifully disappears, replaced by dizzying patterns of light and dark. When he removes his hands and opens his eyes a long moment later, she is gone and he is back in his cabin on the freighter, his chest aching with an intensity that doesn't seem to stem from any of the physical wounds it bears right now.

He still can't fully grasp it. She was there one moment, in his arms, in his bed, and the next… She was gone. He'd just left her side long enough to get them something to drink. Just something to _drink, _for Christ's sake_._

He'd stood there at the counter in his small kitchenette, expecting to return to her, expecting to make love with her again, expecting to hold her until long after they fell asleep. He was expecting – no, he was_ planning out_ how he was eventually going to talk with her. About everything that had happened. About how he wanted to start a new chapter with her, if she was up for it.

He_ hadn't_ expected to find her on the floor, bleeding and fighting to breathe. He hadn't expected he'd be holding her, wrapped only in a sheet, while she was dying. He hadn't expected there would be nothing he could do to help her.

But there _was_ nothing he could do.

Nothing except try to get her to a hospital as fast as possible. Nothing except hold her and try to comfort her and God, he wasn't even sure she'd been able to hear him because he knew she was slipping further and further away from him with every second that passed.

And when he set her down on the gurney at the hospital, he felt… he felt like he was abandoning her.

He presses his eyes closed and sees her in his apartment, her sad, resigned eyes watching him as he walked toward her.

He shakes his head, hard and quick, needing it all to go away.

Mercifully, it does.

Now he becomes aware of how cold he is. Freezing, in fact. As he struggles to slow his own harsh breaths, he wraps his arms around his middle, feeling the faint shivering in himself. Opening his eyes, he blinks hard and looks around.

He must have finally passed out at some point because he's laying on the cold and unforgiving steel floor.

For the briefest of moments, a faint memory of the last time his aching body was curled up on the floor of a ship like this resurfaces. He pushes it down before it can take root and develop into something more distinct.

Eyes heavy, he struggles to get up, varying levels of pain shooting through his body the instant he moves. It takes longer than it should for him to make it into a sitting position. When he does, he leans against the wall, his head pounding and the room spinning around him.

_I'm sorry, Renee_, he tells her, _I should've… I should've..._

Should've been able to stop it.

Should've tried harder, done something more for her.

Should've known something was going to happen.

It's in this moment, that a realization strikes him, causing his throat and gut to tighten and leading the heaviness that's been occupying his chest since he saw her on the OR table to descend even further into his being:

He _had _known.

The understanding is enough to take his breath away.

It's _his_ fault. His fault she's dead.

His gut had warned him not to bring her in on the team going in to rescue Hassan. At the time, he'd thought it was telling him something was going to go wrong during the assault, that she might get hurt. Or worse. He was wrong about the reason behind the instinctual warning, but not about the ultimate outcome.

Had he listened to his instincts, she wouldn't have been there to see the Russian operative posing as an EMT.

She wouldn't have been a target.

She wouldn't be gone.

But he hadn't listened to his instincts. No, that's not quite true. He'd listened. He'd just brought her in anyway.

The result was Reality giving him the middle finger all over again.

The result was Renee Walker – the first woman in a long time he'd allowed himself to feel close to, yet barely knew, yet somehow came to mean more to him than he ever expected – dead.

_I'm so sorry,_ he tells her once more. _I am so, so sorry._

He sits there, forearms resting on bent knees, eyes staring dully at his tremulous hands, and willfully allows his mind to lapse into nothingness again. It's just so much easier, so much less painful if he doesn't let himself think much right now. Or feel much, for that matter.

It isn't until several minutes later, when the loud clang of steel on steel echoing from somewhere beyond his cabin makes it into his consciousness, that his brain kicks in enough that he actually attempts to evaluate his situation.

Weak. Shaky. Dizzy. Cold.

The conclusion doesn't take much thought, which is probably a good thing since he's still not entirely sure how coherent he really is at this point. Cleary, he's still dehydrated. And he's probably still running a fever.

He glances at the clock on the desk, its glowing, red face telling him it's nearly time for another dose of the antibiotics.

He shifts his body and reaches across the short distance to the locker next to him. Opening it, he retrieves the bottle then settles back against the wall again, the pain already incredible and his breathing labored after just that little bit of movement.

His eyes drift to the small refrigerator on the other side of the room. He needs the fluid that the bottles of water inside will provide but he's already dreading the journey.

By the time he manages to make it to his feet a few moments later, he's broken into a full sweat and his heart is beating so hard and fast in his chest, he can feel every beat pulsing through the wounds in his torso, compounding the pain. His mouth is desperately dry and the pounding beneath his skull has only worsened.

Slowly, and on legs far too unsteady for his liking, he starts to cross the room, dizziness his companion the entire way.

Finally, he makes it to the fridge and, after taking a moment to try to catch his breath, he leans down to grab two bottles of water. The moment he straightens to his full height, the room spins violently and shadows on the edges of his vision rapidly close in, prompting him to reach out to the desk next to him to steady himself.

While he waits for the room to slowly right itself again, he leans his backside against the desk and downs one of the pills, chasing it with the first bottle of water. He's halfway through the second bottle when he realizes his legs are shaking nearly as badly as his hands.

He needs to sit down or he's going to fall down.

Pulling the chair away from the desk, he drops himself onto it. He rests his elbows on his knees and stares at the half-empty bottle in his hands, still trying to catch his breath.

He has a problem, he realizes with some clarity now. His oxygen supply has taken a hit; he's lost too much blood.

At the very least, he needs intravenous fluids, which means a trip back down to the infirmary; he'd seen some IV bags there while on the hunt for the Tylenol a few hours ago. But though the IV fluids will help hydrate him, the problem remains... IV fluids are not an oxygen carrier. Until his body can compensate for and recover from the blood loss on its own, he's going to have issues – the first of which, he sees, is going to be actually making it to the infirmary. And, with as bad as his hands are shaking, starting the IV itself is going to pose a problem as well.

He's in the middle of trying to muster the energy and motivation to stand up again when a persistent knock at the door makes it into his awareness.

He tilts his head to stare at the door, wondering what the chances are that he'll make it that far without passing out.

Swallowing the last of the water, he pushes himself to his feet and half-stumbles his way to the other side of the room. He wipes the beads of perspiration from his face and pulls open the door to find Captain Tucker standing in front of him.

"West," the bearded man says gruffly, "You didn't show up at your post this morning."

It takes Jack a beat to figure out what the hell the man is talking about. When he does, he drops his gaze. Ordinary Seaman. Portside. 0600.

_Right._

"Sorry," he mumbles, "I – I must've overslept."

Tucker appraises him with sharp, deep blue eyes and a frown. "Are you all right, West?"

"Yeah," Jack exhales, trying – and failing – to force his breathing into something remotely normal, "Fine."

"You don't look fine," the captain says bluntly, "You look like shit."

"Bad case of food poisoning," Jack explains, even as he has trouble focusing on the man, "Just let me grab a few-"

Jack turns to retrieve his denim jacket and baseball cap but he loses his balance and Tucker is forced to reach out to steady him.

"Give it a rest, West," he hears Tucker saying now, the man's voice sounding farther away than it should. "Our mutual friend told me you might need some medical attention. You hid it well enough last night, I suppose. But now… You're barely standing up."

"I'll be fine. I just need…" Jack pauses, his voice trailing off as he suddenly loses track of what he was going to say.

"Right," Tucker mutters, putting his arm out to support him, "Let's go. My doc can be trusted."

Jack looks at the man, still trying to bring him completely into focus. He doesn't argue. At this point, he knows he has no real choice in the matter. He thought he could handle the injuries on his own, but it's clear now, he was wrong.

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 1 <strong>_

_**07:38**_** am**

"No, that's okay," Chloe replies into her cell as she walks back into her bedroom, "Let me know if anything changes. I'll check back later."

She pauses for a beat, having to remind herself of something that doesn't necessarily come naturally for her. "And Janis? Thanks."

Disconnecting the call, she frowns in disappointment just as Morris pops his head into the room.

"Well?"

"No change," she answers quietly, "They couldn't get her off the ventilator."

Morris steps up behind her and she feels the warm, reassuring weight of his hands on her shoulders. "But she isn't any worse, right? That's a good thing."

Chloe sighs. "I guess."

"Then go with that," he says, lightly massaging the muscles beneath his hands, "You have to try to be _positive_, darling."

"Be positive," she repeats under her breath, "Right. And what about any of this is really positive again?"

She changes the subject just as she realizes he's about to try to answer the rhetorical question.

"You're going to have to help Prescott with breakfast this morning. I'm already running late."

"I'll take care of it," he says, giving her shoulders a final squeeze before turning to head back into the kitchen.

"Remember," he adds as he reaches the doorway, "Be. Positive."

"Yeah, you and your positivity just make sure you pack Prescott something for lunch," she replies over her shoulder, "They're going on a field trip today."

"Got it," Morris calls back from the kitchen.

Tossing the phone onto her bed, Chloe curses inwardly as she catches a glimpse of the clock on her nightstand. She's later than she thought. And it's not even because she overslept.

As she searches her closet for something appropriate to wear for her first full day in her new position at CTU, she stifles a yawn.

Between Morris' unrelenting insistence that she talk about what happened after she finally got home late last night and her own brain's unwillingness to shut off in spite of the exhaustion, she barely managed four hours sleep.

Even that little bit wasn't uninterrupted.

First, her brain twisted shooting Jack into a more perverse and fatal nightmare that woke her not long after she fell asleep.

Then, just before 5:30, she was awakened by a call from the relief crew at CTU informing her that a maintenance team had discovered a body stuffed into the wall of one of the conference rooms.

Security had identified him as Bill Prady, a probation officer from Arkansas who, according to the security logs, had been admitted to see Dana Walsh just after 3 a.m. the night before. According to the report, the man had been garroted – she can only assume by Dana herself – and had been dead for nearly 24 hours before he had been discovered.

A team was immediately tasked with determining why he was at CTU and why Dana would've wanted him dead but at this point they're waiting to hear back from the Arkansas Department of Corrections to determine if the visit concerned official business or was of a personal nature.

It was then that she gave up on getting any more worthwhile sleep.

As it turns out, she wouldn't have gotten much more anyway.

Just over an hour after hanging up with her CTU relief, she got word from Division notifying her that for the time being she will remain in place as Acting Director of CTU.

Ironically, in the same phone call, they also countermanded her decision to keep Cole on board. She'd called a few minutes ago to give him the news and had been just about to broach the subject of using him for a side job when Janis called with the update on Renee.

Distracted and only half-processing the clothes she's sliding along the bars in her closet, she's still searching for something to wear when her cell rings again a few moments later. She steps back over to the bed, checking the caller-ID as she grabs the phone.

CTU again.

She shifts her attention to the clock on her nightstand. Technically, she's not late yet so it can't be about that.

Rolling her eyes, she picks up the call as she returns to her closet.

"Now what?" she grumbles, reaching for a jacket she thinks might be the one she's looking for only to discover it belongs to Morris.

She listens as the night shift relief's voice speaks hesitantly in her ear. As the man goes on, Chloe closes her eyes, tilts her head back and heaves a sigh.

"No," she says, the hand that had been pushing the hangers along falling to her side. "Thanks for letting me know."

She disconnects and stares at the phone in her hand. Part of her knew this might be coming, but mostly, she's been hoping it would all be overlooked. Apparently, however, the FBI isn't in the mood to forget things when it comes to Jack Bauer because they've sent a team to CTU looking for her. Not finding her there, they're now on their way to her apartment.

With an arrest warrant.

She takes a deep breath and looks through the doorway of her bedroom. Though she can't see them, she can hear Morris pouring cereal into Prescott's bowl as he and Prescott discuss whether or not one of his friends can come over after school.

Abandoning the idea of finding suitable attire for a Director of CTU, she grabs the first tank top she sees, reaches for a pair of black jeans and quickly changes into them. No point in dressing for a job it appears is no longer hers.

She moves into the kitchen, stopping just inside the doorway to watch and listen to her family for a moment.

In spite of Morris' mantra a few moments ago – one she doubts he'll even remember in the next few minutes – she knows no amount of positive thinking is going to change the implications of the phone call. In fact, she's pretty sure it's only downhill from here.

"Uh… Morris?" she says quietly.

Morris doesn't even look up at her as he adds milk to Prescott's cereal. "Yeah, love?"

"We're getting company…"


	6. Chapter 6

Thanks for stopping by and extra special thanks for those who have been submitting their thoughts on the story so far! I appreciate your responses and motivation to keep plugging away with this!

Enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 1 <strong>_

_**10:31 am**_

Though he tries, Jack can't hold back a groan as too much pressure is applied in the wrong area of his ribs.

"Sorry," the man next to him says quietly, "Sure you don't want something stronger for the pain?"

"It's fine," Jack replies with a grimace.

As it turns out, Tucker's use of the word "doc" was merely a loose term to describe Edwin Murro, a small and pleasant man of Filipino descent who, going by the hair with more silver than black and the lines on his face, Jack guesses is probably in his late fifties.

According to Tucker, along with being an assistant engineer, Murro is also a former Navy corpsman and has doubled as a resident medical officer on board various union ships for more years than Tucker wanted to count. The captain has assured him Murro's not only good at his job but that he's also discreet. Not that Jack has any choice but to accept the offer of help. Nor can he complain. He could see in Murro's eyes in his first few minutes with him that he's a good man.

And so far, he seems to know what he's doing.

In the hours since Tucker basically hefted him onto one of the padded narrow exam tables and returned to his duties, Murro has been working on him steadily. He'd taken his vital signs and promptly handed him the oxygen mask. He'd started an IV and hooked him up to a bag of fluid. He'd listened to his lungs, offered him some pain medication and gave him some Tylenol for his fever.

Then, he had helped Jack out of his shirt.

He'd gotten one look at the wounds and scars on his chest, arms and back, drew a deep breath and pushed his gold-rimmed bifocals up on his nose.

"Hmmph," he'd said, lifting the edge of a piece of blood-stained gauze, "Haven't had to do _this_ kind of work for a while."

After that, he began meticulously examining, cleaning and dressing every wound. He's even reopened the slice along Jack's ribs – the same wound Jack had forced Pillar to suture up for him – in order to clean it out. He's been at it for a while now and though Jack has seen the questions in his eyes, Murro hasn't asked a single question about any of it.

He flinches as the man again touches an area that is too sensitive and the man next to him mumbles another apology.

Jack gives no reply. Instead, he stares unseeingly at the infirmary ceiling with tired and aching eyes. He's handled much worse with less than a couple of Tylenol and if enduring the pain means he can stave off the images and focus his thoughts, it'll be worth it.

In the meantime, he's also trying to swallow his frustration.

During the early and middle stages of his recovery from the prion virus, he was trapped in a hospital, connected to IVs and oxygen and all the other things that kept him alive and helped him recover. In those months, he'd lost count of the times he'd sworn to himself that, aside from quite possibly his deathbed, he'd never again be in that kind of situation.

Seeing that this probably isn't his deathbed, he can add yet another promise he'd meant to keep to the long list of promises he's made and broken.

He shivers again and finds himself longing for a long, hot shower. Or a roaring fire in a fireplace. He'd even settle for a warm blanket. Or a hot cup of… anything.

He attempts to keep his thoughts focused on that for a while. Hot showers. Hot drinks. Clothes straight from the dryer. The sun warming his skin on the beach.

He's tried to keep his mind completely clear while laying here but since that's taken more effort than he can muster, he's been trying to direct his thoughts instead, focusing first on the physical pain, then on things he remembers from his last time in a hospital or on how wonderful the hot shower would feel.

Anything to keep his thoughts on relatively safe ground.

He's only half-succeeded.

"Well, they won't be pretty, West," he finally hears Murro announce as he removes his latex gloves with a sharp snap, "But as long as we keep on top of them, I think there's a decent chance we could be okay."

Jack shifts his eyes to follow the man as he pushes back the gray-green curtain and steps over to the stainless steel sink across the room to wash his hands.

"Thanks," he says softly.

For the first time since Tucker brought him here, Jack finds himself scanning his surroundings. Already well acquainted with the curtain and the ceiling with its stained acoustic tiles, he takes in the rest of the infirmary.

While just as old as the rest of the ship that he's seen so far, the large room appears spotlessly clean. The stainless steel cabinets with their scratched and cloudy plexi-glass doors seem to be neatly organized, as does the small desk along the far wall. And the surfaces of the stainless steel countertops are uncluttered and gleaming in the bright overhead lights. Unlike his cabin, this room has a window, though what it looks out on, he's not in a position to see.

The other two exam tables have been unoccupied since he got here, but are prepared for any patient who'd walk in looking for help. The walls, painted in a dull gray-green color just a shade darker than the curtain, may be chipped and peeling in a few places where they aren't covered with shelves and cabinets, but overall, the place seems well taken care of.

Glimpsing Murro approaching once more, Jack shifts his attention back to the ceiling tiles. His body almost hyper-sensitive at the moment, he finds himself flinching slightly when Murro touches his arm.

"Sorry," the man apologizes again, "I just wanted to take another set of vital signs."

Jack briefly glances up at him and nods tiredly but he says nothing, merely lifts his arm so Murro can apply the blood pressure cuff. As the cuff begins to tighten on his arm, he returns his gaze to the ceiling and breathes in the faint antiseptic odor permeating the room.

In spite of his efforts to control them, his thoughts soon begin drifting into territory he's been trying to avoid.

They drift to his family.

In his mind's eye sit the clearest of images: Kim, standing in the tunnel outside CTU, her eyes wet but full of understanding. And Teri – sweet, beautiful little Teri – waiting in the car, Bear held safely in her hands. He can even picture Stephen, who's been more support to Kim during his recovery than Jack could ever have asked for and who has not only earned his trust over the last year and a half but a place in his heart as well.

By now, Chloe should have gotten someone to them. He's not sure who or how, but she has to have managed to put something in place.

He knows the options. He knows they're not going to be happy and that uprooting them is not going to be easy on them. He knows it will cause issues and strains – not the least of which will be on Kim and Stephen's marriage.

He swallows, feeling the guilt beginning to squeeze his throat. On top of everything else he's put her through, after all the pain he's caused her over the years, putting his daughter's marriage and child at risk is now on his shoulders, too.

And he isn't even there to explain why in person.

He'd recorded his message for Kim thinking he'd be dead by the time she heard it. While that's not the case, it will still serve as his final goodbye to her and he wishes he'd had time to say so much more. In the end, he can only hope that what he _had_ managed to say will help her, and maybe someday even help Teri, understand.

Ultimately, however, it's been left to Chloe to fill in the details; it's been left to Chloe to keep them safe.

He bristles at that, the fact that someone else is responsible for keeping his family safe. It should be him taking care of them. It should be _him._

But then, if not for him, they wouldn't be requiring protection in the first place.

_And Chloe… Chloe can handle it,_ he tells himself. She's capable of figuring something out that will work for them. He has no choice but to trust that.

The guilt settles in even deeper as his thoughts linger on Chloe and everything he's left on her shoulders.

Leaving her to be responsible for the safety of his family is just one part of it. Adding to that is everything he put her through yesterday…

Forcing her to go against him. Forcing her into a position where she had to choose between him and her obligations to CTU in a way and on a level that was beyond anything he'd asked of her in the past. Forcing her to_ shoot_ him.

Friends don't do those kinds of things to each other.

_He_ has.

Still, she tried to help him. Still, she had his interests at heart.

And, at the end of the day, all he'd had to offer her was a simple thank you, one that didn't begin to cover all she has done for him in the years he's known her. Hell, it's not even enough to cover what she's done for him over the last eighteen months.

He swallows, the memory of her face as he ordered her to shoot him flashing into his mind's eye.

_And she isn't the only person you've cared about that you've forced into compromising themselves,_ he tells himself angrily, _She isn't the only one who's paid a price for -_

"_Jack…" _

Jack tenses on the exam table as Renee's voice sounds in his ears.

"_You all right?" _

Her voice is soft but clear as crystal and, even though he knows she can't possibly be here, the shock of hearing it makes him look around the room in search of her. As expected, he finds only Murro, who has moved to rifle through a cabinet on the far side of the room.

He releases the breath he'd held the moment he heard her voice. He must be worse off than he thought if he's hallucinating.

_It's just the fever,_ he decides, _Or maybe the fact that you've missed a few doses of your meds._

He tries to think. Though the doctors managed to wean him off most of his medications in the past few months, and though he hasn't had a seizure since coming out of the coma, they'd been reluctant to withdraw his low-dose anti-seizure medication, wanting to wait another six months before stopping it completely. Then there's the medication that's helped keep the slight tremor that can still creep up on him from time to time at bay. He can't recall if stopping the meds so abruptly can cause hallucinations but in the back of his mind now, he wonders if he can look forward to the seizures starting up again and the tremor getting worse.

"_Jack?"_

Her voice again. And God, how he wishes it was real. How he wishes that the hours that have passed since they were in his bed have just been a nightmare; and that they'd actually fallen asleep in each other's arms, blissful and content and exhausted. How he wants to believe that he's actually there with her now and her voice in his ears is really her – alive and trying to rouse him from this terrible dream.

But the last twenty four hours have been all too real.

"_You okay?"_

_It's just the exhaustion_, he acknowledges as another shiver travels through him. And then… _It's the grief._

He's learned, far too many times over the years, that grief can play horribly cruel tricks on the mind. Even now, after all his experiences with it, he's not certain what demons may emerge from his subconscious.

Whatever the cause, the reminder of the loss hits him in the gut and the anger and sorrow make a return.

It occurs to him, as he tries to push the emotions down, that it must be some leftover audio memory choosing the wrong time to surface. Though months have passed, he remembers Renee had asked him variations of that question countless times in the hours after he'd been exposed to the prion virus. Somehow, it must have left an indelible imprint in his brain.

_She_ left an indelible imprint.

He's sure that at the time, he probably told her he was fine every time she asked, even though she must have known it was a lie. And, just like then, he's not okay now. He's not fine. If she was here right now, he might even admit to it. If she was just here…

"Here," Murro says, interrupting his thoughts, handing him three pills and a glass of water, "Ibuprofen."

Tugging the oxygen mask from his face, Jack eyes the pills for a moment before pushing himself up enough that he can swallow them down with a sip of water. "How high is the fever?" he asks, giving him back the glass.

"High enough for you to take those on top of the Tylenol," Murro replies as he walks over to a counter and unlocks another cabinet door. "And while I don't have a lot of options in terms of pain medication, I do have a decent supply of antibiotics on hand. I'll give you some of those too. Any allergies?"

"No."

"Any other conditions I need to know about?" the man asks, pulling out two small plastic bins, "Other medications you're on?"

Jack debates the necessity of providing more information than he'd like. He doesn't know the intricacies of the medications and how they work with one another but he knows from one particular incident over the course of his stem cell treatment that they can interact badly. In the end, as he had with Jim's antibiotic, he decides to take his chances.

"No," he says quietly.

"Good, that makes it easier," the man replies as he goes through the bins. A moment later, Murro is at Jack's side with a large brown bottle and the glass of water. As he hands him the water, Jack surprises himself.

"Actually, I've… I've been taking an antibiotic," he finds himself admitting, "Since last night."

"You have?" Murro asks with surprise, and Jack has to give him credit for not asking where he managed to get them without getting the wounds properly addressed at the same time, "Which one?"

"I…" Jack huffs tiredly. For the life of him, he can't recall the name on the label. It's a slip that would concern him if he wasn't sure the exhaustion – mental, emotional and physical – is at the root of the lapse. "I don't remember."

"Do you have it with you?"

"No."

"If it's in your cabin, I can go get it."

Jack frowns, remembering the lockers and everything stored inside. "No," he says, tugging the oxygen mask off, "I'll take yours. It's fine."

Murro seems to consider things for a moment, then shakes out a large white tablet from the bottle and hands it to Jack.

"Bring yours with you in the morning and if we need to, we'll switch back to it. For now, take that." He waits for Jack to down the pill and finish the glass of water before turning to put the bottle back on a shelf.

"Usually," he goes on as he locks the cabinet, "I'd be radioing the supervising doc I work under to get advice about all this. Probably even be shipping you out. But the feeling I got from the skipper is that's not an option. So we'll do what we can on our own, continue the IV fluids and oxygen for the next couple of days and go from there."

Finally, he reaches for a light blanket and returns to Jack's side. "This isn't much," he says as he spreads the thin material over him, "But it'll have to do until your fever comes down some. And I have a couple of oxygen tanks you can use at night in your quarters so you don't have to sleep on this godawful table all night."

Jack looks up at him and for the first time it strikes him just how fortunate he is that Jim pointed him in this direction. Time to rest and recover is a luxury he couldn't have even hoped to have just eighteen hours ago and he certainly hadn't expected someone with medical training to willingly help him out. He could've ended up in a lot worse places – and probably would have – had it not been for Jim Ricker.

"Thanks, Murro," he says, sincerely grateful for the man's kindness, "I appreciate everything you're doing."

"Edwin," Murro replies, his dark, almond-shaped eyes crinkling around the edges as he smiles and extends a hand toward Jack, "Call me Edwin. Or Eddie."

"John," Jack says, grasping his hand and shaking it.

"Well, John," Edwin says with a friendly smirk. "You're going to be here for a while so put that mask back on. And you might as well close your eyes and get some rest, too. No offense, but it seems to me you could really use it."

"Yeah," Jack breathes, managing the most minimal of smiles.

He doesn't want to shut his eyes for longer than it takes to blink. Twenty minutes later, however, the fatigue drives his eyes closed without his consent anyway.

As expected, the mosaic of familiar images comes and her eyes haunt him.

They are standing in front of the reflecting pool in D.C. again, her eyes telling him he was asking too much of her. Yet she had walked away and done what he'd asked anyway.

Then she is sitting stone-silent next to him in a car on their way to see Ziya Dakhilov, her eyes overtly avoiding his, furious tension oozing from every part of her as he struggled to find a way to start a conversation that wouldn't begin or end with him apologizing for getting involved in the operation or for being concerned about her.

And they are in her office at the FBI, her eyes determined and challenging as she basically dared him to walk away from the effort to find Tony.

Finally, she is over him, moving with him, her soft, dark red hair falling forward over her shoulders, shrouding his face and tickling his skin as she leaned down to kiss him. Her eyes… her eyes are focused solely on his. They are stunning and intense. And they are unafraid.

In the moments before he drifts off, he recalls wrapping his arms around her as she lay collapsed on top of his chest, her muscles still faintly twitching around him, her quick and shallow breaths hot on his neck. And he remembers what he whispered in her ear the instant he'd found enough air and was capable of forming a coherent thought.

At the memory of her response…

…a series of soft, breathless kisses strung along the edge of his jaw until she finally reached his lips, where she stopped to study him with curiosity in her intoxicating eyes. Then, her silent question apparently answered, she kissed him with a searing voracity that drew forth a low hum from deep in his belly…

…the ache in his chest only intensifies.

A moment later, that ache is quickly replaced by sharp sparks of anger and regret.

His last thought before sleep claims him is that he should've pulled the trigger the moment Suvarov walked into his line of sight.

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 1 <strong>_

_**11:20 am**_

Chloe sits in the back seat of a taxi, scowling as she watches the city beyond her window, an uncomfortable blend of anger, anxiety, paranoia and relief flowing through her.

She spent the bulk of the morning sitting in a hot, sterile interrogation room at the FBI's New York field office, stubbornly maintaining her silence while waiting for the lawyer she hoped Morris could secure for her to arrive.

She passed the time by trying – and failing – not to worry...

About Morris and Prescott and how her arrest and likely conviction was going to affect them and whether she'd still have a family when it was all said and done;

About the search for Jack and the protection protocol for Kim and her family and how things would fall apart if they truly managed to toss her in a cell and throw away the key;

About Renee's status and how not being in a position to look out for her would ultimately leave her – and by extension, quite possibly Jack – more vulnerable. And not just to the Russians;

About how much Logan's mercenaries have spilled to the FBI. She wasn't sure what, if anything, they knew about what truly happened with Jack after President Taylor called them off, but if they suspected the president and CTU allowed him to escape, it went a long way in explaining why she was there;

About how much Taylor shared with the AG about what happened in those final moments before they basically let Jack elude custody;

And whether or not she'd done enough to cover her own tracks.

It wasn't until seventy-two minutes into her stay with the FBI – and she knew the precise number of minutes because the damned ticking of the clock on the wall had just about driven her crazy – that a high-powered defense attorney and two of her associates were ushered into the holding room.

She knew the instant she saw them that there was no way she could afford the fees and it made her wonder what Morris had been thinking in hiring her. Still, after introducing herself and her team, "Gwendolyn Harper of Barron, Harper and Lloyd" quickly got down to business, succinctly laying out the FBI's case against her.

Chloe let her. She'd worry about the fees later.

It turned out, to Chloe's immense relief, that the FBI had nothing concrete. In fact, Harper's opinion had been that there wasn't nearly enough evidence to justify an arrest much less assure conviction.

Contrary to what she'd thought – _worried _– might've happened, the mercenaries hadn't said a word to investigators since the FBI brought them in.

Nor had President Taylor spilled the details of those last moments with Jack. Instead, she'd apparently lied to and withheld information from federal investigators – a move she has to have known will only compound the list of charges against her if they discover the truth.

According to what Harper was allowed to see of her statement so far, the president explained that once she realized Logan couldn't help her stop his men from killing Jack Bauer, she contacted CTU in the hope that their analysts and drones might help her locate both Jack and Logan's team of hired mercenaries.

She stated that CTU had been involved only insofar as she required their assistance in finding Jack and the men sent to kill him and, upon achieving _that_, in establishing a communications link so she could speak with the mercenaries and with Jack. Beyond that, she declared, CTU bore no responsibility in what happened.

She also made it clear that she gave Jack the same order she'd given the mercenaries – to stay put and wait for the FBI – and claimed that she was surprised and disappointed that he was gone by the time the Bureau arrived. Gwendolyn Harper couldn't help noting that there was no drone footage to counter the president's claim.

Still, Chloe's friendship with Jack was apparently well known to the FBI. They were aware she'd helped him circumvent their D.C. division eighteen months ago and, with it already on record that she attempted to help Jack earlier in the day by smuggling out whatever evidence he reportedly obtained, they felt that if anyone knew Jack Bauer's whereabouts, it would be her.

In their eagerness to find him – an eagerness likely fueled by the understanding that the more time passed, the harder finding him would be – they went after Chloe in the hope of pressuring her into telling them something in order to save herself.

After a brief discussion in which Chloe told Harper enough to refute various aspects of the FBI's claims and still keep herself out of trouble, the lawyer brought in Agent Frank – and promptly began ripping him and his case apart.

Chloe sat there in silence, watching and listening as her attorney countered each of the FBI's allegations, pointing out that whatever assistance she provided Jack Bauer was less assistance – she'd shot the man to stop him from killing the Russian president, after all – and more doing the job she was supposed to do. Namely, attempting to bring to light the illegal and, one could argue, terrorist-related activities that had been undertaken by people abusing their positions of authority.

As for her alleged facilitation of Jack Bauer's escape, it was clear from the president's statement that Chloe's responsibility ended once CTU's drone found Bauer and they established the communications link.

Her favorite part had been when Harper got right up in Agent Frank's face and, with a not-too-subtle smirk, pointed out that Chloe was hardly to blame for the incompetence shown by the FBI. After all, President Taylor had all but wrapped the team of mercenaries and Jack Bauer in a box complete with ribbon and bow for the FBI. It was _their_ lack of urgency in arriving at the scene in time to secure them that was the issue, especially when they knew what the men involved were capable of. And clearly, they were trying to deflect their failure onto someone else.

Three hours after her arrival at the FBI, Chloe found herself walking out of the interrogation room a free woman. At least for the time being.

The moment she was escorted out of the building, she called Morris and was both surprised and deeply relieved to find that he was still talking to her.

Morris was also surprised. Apparently, he'd called everyone he could think of in order to find a strong enough attorney and had just gotten off the phone with one he thought might be able to help. When she told him about Gwendolyn Harper, it was clear he had nothing to do with hiring her.

She wasn't sure what to make of it. Just as she began to wonder if – _impossibly_ – Jack had known she'd need legal help and had somehow placed a call, she received a call from Wilson at Division.

She was stunned when he informed her that while the FBI's investigation into the events surrounding Jack Bauer's escape was ongoing – which, she decided, meant she was still under scrutiny – she was still Acting Director of CTU and had the full support of Division as well as Homeland Security in all CTU directives and activities, including the search for Jack Bauer.

It struck her, less than a minute into the conversation, that Division must've known FBI was going to arrest her. When she'd asked about it, she discovered that Gwendolyn Harper was one of the "perks of the position."

They'd already spoken with Harper and understood the situation as she had laid it out for the FBI. They knew the FBI's case didn't hold water and, apparently, she impressed enough people with her handling of the recent events that they were willing to follow Tim Woods' recommendation and keep her in place for the time being, which would allow them adequate time to find and properly vet a permanent replacement.

While it doesn't take much self-reflection to know that, right now, she doesn't really want the job – it's seriously interfering with what she really needs to be doing – she recognizes it has also afforded her some benefits, not the least of which is the legal assistance of Gwendolyn Harper. And that assistance is something she's not entirely certain she won't need again sometime soon.

As the taxi cab comes to a stop at a stoplight, her eyes absently skim over the stream of pedestrians crossing the street in front of the car while her mind quickly sifts through the list of things she has to do. After all, CTU is waiting and there will be more than enough catching up to do when she gets there.

Before she tackles any of that, however, she has one little side stop to make. To that end, she leans forward and gives the driver a new destination.

Then, as the light turns green and the cab pulls forward, Chloe takes out her cell and places her second call of the day to Cole Ortiz.


	7. Chapter 7

Thanks for stopping by to read! And thanks to all those who've been sharing their thoughts on this!

Enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 1<strong>_

_**01:50 pm**_

_**New York City**_

"I appreciate that, sir," Chloe O'Brian says into her Bluetooth. Arms crossed, she slowly paces near the conference table in her office at CTU, "Thank you for calling."

Disconnecting the call, she pulls the device from her ear and moves over to drop it onto the table and herself into a chair. She draws a deep breath, holding it a beat before releasing it, hoping some of the tension in her body might leave with it.

It doesn't.

She shifts her gaze to the large computer screen beyond the glass walls of her office, only half-registering the data streaming across it. A tired frown settles onto her face and, at the risk of nodding off, she leans back and closes her eyes for a few moments.

It's not even 2 p.m. yet and she's already wishing the day was over.

The call she'd just taken had been from Brian Hastings, who had phoned to offer his condolences. He learned of Renee's death while still at Division yesterday morning but had decided to wait until the immediate crisis had come to an end to call.

Evidently, the former CTU director had also kept up on what was happening throughout the rest of yesterday. He knew the situation Jack had forced her into and, having apparently taken her statement from yesterday morning to heart, had stopped short of praising her efforts.

He had also apologized again. He knew her first day in the position had been a trial by fire and he acknowledged that his mistakes played a part in that.

While Chloe appreciates the sentiment, she would gladly hand the whole damned mess back to him if it meant she could spend her time tracking down Jack. Instead, she's having to concentrate on the myriad of administrative tasks that have come with her new title.

The moment she returned to CTU after being released from FBI custody, she began working to get caught up on what's happened since she left after getting the call about Renee last night.

She'd checked the overnight reports and morning status updates first. Among them had been a report on the unexpected death of Eden Linley, Pillar's "associate."

While Chloe sat in Renee's hospital room last night, CTU officially transferred Eden into DOJ custody for her part in facilitating the cover-up. Apparently, the car she was being transported in was involved in a fiery multi-car accident while still in transit. Four people, including the two federal Marshals escorting her, died at the scene. Eden died while being transported to the nearest hospital.

Chloe knows it would sound bad if she uttered the words aloud but her first thought upon reading the report was at least Eden hadn't been in CTU custody at the time.

There had also been a report that Sergei Bazhaev hung himself in his cell during the night. According to the guard's statement, he'd been visibly upset over the deaths of his sons but there had been no indication that he was suicidal until it was too late.

Meanwhile, Meredith Reed was released by the FBI late last night. No official charges were filed against her and aside from having excellent grounds for a lawsuit, Chloe expects she'll be printing her story in this evening's special edition of the New York Courier for all to see.

She'd also seen that Ziya Dakhilov's body had been fished out of one of the local rivers this morning; she'd been on the phone with the NYPD following up on that issue when Hastings called.

Even as she was reviewing the reports, she began trying to clean up residual messes and started addressing the new alerts coming out. All while still trying to get comfortable in the new role she's been assigned and still worrying about whether or not the FBI is going to be knocking on her door again in the near future.

And then there's the political fallout from yesterday.

With President Taylor's greatly-lauded peace agreement in ruins, three different countries are now rushing to deal with the aftermath.

The president has been true to her word to Jack. Within an hour after speaking to him, she'd held a press conference and explained the major events of the day as succinctly as possible. There had been no allowance for questions.

Then, in spite of her administration's efforts overnight to save itself from what was clearly a death knell, she submitted her resignation first thing this morning and handed herself over to the Attorney General shortly after Vice President Mitchell Hayworth was officially sworn in as president.

Also early this morning, Acting IRK President Dahlia Hassan made her accusations regarding her husband's assassination official, clear and public and she has filed a formal complaint with the U.N. against both Presidents Suvarov and Taylor.

Suvarov's vehement denials of Russia's involvement began immediately after Taylor's press conference and he has since launched his own accusations regarding the American government's participation in the "brutal murders" of two of their diplomats as well as an entire diplomatic security team.

While she's sure it's only a matter of time and clearance by the AG, Dana's video and Jack's recording of Logan's conversation with Suvarov have yet to be released. When they are, she imagines Suvarov will be backpedaling and trying to manufacture some sort of explanation to maneuver his way out of things.

As for the other major player in the political tragedy, according to the last batch of updates, former-President Charles Logan remains in a coma. If he ever comes out of it, he'll be facing indictment for murder, conspiracy and a slew of other charges. But all indications are that it's highly unlikely he'll ever be in a condition to be brought in front of a court of law.

She's also learned that the situation has claimed more than just Taylor, Logan and the peace accord as its victims.

Secretary of State Ethan Kanin, a member of Taylor's innermost circle and reportedly one of her most trusted friends, has fallen as well – though his fall is much more permanent.

Chloe had known that he had experienced a minor cardiac event in the midst of everything going on yesterday and though he subsequently resigned his position citing health reasons, she'd heard that his prognosis was good. Apparently, however, the stress of watching Taylor's downfall was too much for him and he suffered a major heart attack overnight. This time, the damage proved too much for his heart and he was pronounced dead just a few hours before Taylor's resignation this morning.

Opening her eyes, Chloe glances at the list of open protocols on the computer screen again.

When she takes the time to think about it, the sheer number of balls to juggle right now feels overwhelming. What makes it worse is that the situations that personally matter to her are ones she's had to toss to someone else.

Beyond her CTU obligations and the political morass, there's her private search for Jack – one that she's coordinating but that Arlo is mostly carrying through. The search programs they initiated have been running since late last night but there hasn't been so much as a blip that might indicate where Jack could be. The more time that passes, the slimmer the chances of finding him and up until she found out about Renee, that was a good thing. But now… at least for her own purposes, it's only adding to the pressure.

Then there's Kim, who is understandably devastated and scared for her father. Chloe had expected to receive a copy of Jack's message to his daughter by now but, nearly twenty-two hours after speaking to the president about it, she has yet to receive it. In the meantime, while Kim and her husband had initially been willing to subject themselves to the protection protocol Cole put in place, so far they have refused permanent relocation and new identities as an option.

Chloe tried to appeal to her last night while still at Renee's bedside. She'd even resorted to using Teri's safety as a pressure point, but it hadn't worked. She's been hoping that whatever Jack has to say in the message helps change her mind because there's only so long she can keep Cole's security detail in place.

And finally, there's Renee.

Medically, nothing has changed since she left her bedside last night. She is still on the ventilator and still sedated. Her blood pressure remains low in spite of the medication they're giving her to increase it. Her kidney function continues to be a concern as does the intermittent fever that persists in spite of the powerful antibiotics they're giving her.

But Renee's medical status hasn't been the only thing that's had Chloe worried. Her safety has been on her mind as well.

Excluding Logan's mercenaries, who have so far remained silent on the issue, only a handful of people know the truth about Jack's last known status; and, aside from Cole's security detail, _less_ than a handful know the whereabouts of Kim and her family.

She has no doubt that Cole and Arlo won't be sharing what they know. Tim Woods and President Taylor don't appear eager to share either. And Cole's assured her that the small group of men he's assigned to protect Kim and her family are all completely trustworthy; she has no choice but to believe that.

But a much larger number of people seem to know that Renee has, to this point, managed to survive the attempt on her life – and to say Chloe's trust in them is limited would be an understatement of enormous proportions.

In spite of the FBI's assurances that they have the security situation under control, Chloe knows all too well how easily word can get out under normal circumstances. These are anything but normal circumstances.

If her own government wants Jack badly enough – and after what they pulled with her this morning, it's clear that they do – the FBI may ultimately not be the best group of people to have around Renee. Because as with Kim and Teri, using Renee as a lure would be a sure-fire way to set a trap for him.

In spite of her initial reaction to seeing Janis, it helps to know that she's at Renee's bedside. Still, she put her own, additional safeguard into place shortly after the FBI released her this morning. Of course, she'd feel much better if it was _Jack_ at Renee's bedside but at this point it's enough that she feels a little better about the situation.

For her part, she wishes she could be in five places at once. She'd even settle for three.

As it is, she has a job to do. Once her day here is over, she'll head back over to St. Andrew's to check on things there. And at some point between now and finally crawling into bed again, she has to check in with Kim again and find a way to explain her arrest to her son.

But as her intercom sounds and Arlo announces a call from Tim Woods, she wonders if her day will _ever_ end.

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 1 <strong>_

_**1:57**_

The day after his life seemed to start falling apart, Cole Ortiz finds himself sitting in a chair in a corner of Renee Walker's hospital room. In his hands, he holds a data pad containing the protection protocol for Kim Bauer and her family and his dark, tired eyes scrutinize the plans for flaws and weaknesses so he can advise Chloe.

So far, he's found little to concern him.

He spent much of last night at CTU working to establish and begin executing the protocol. He'd gotten the call from Chloe just before midnight advising him that she'd finally spoken to Kim and he had the go-ahead to send in the men he'd personally chosen and dispatched to L.A. within two hours after Jack dissolved into snow on the monitor in front of him.

He'd stayed at CTU until getting confirmation that the small team – all former marines and all good and honorable men – had the family in tow and had arrived at the designated temporary safe house.

The moment he got home – his and Dana's home – he saw the mess in the living room and knew Dana's friends had been there. He briefly considered packing a bag and finding a hotel room or even crashing at CTU. In the end, he'd collapsed onto the bed fully clothed; he'd been that exhausted.

A mere four and a half hours later, he'd been awakened by the first call from Chloe. The inevitable had arrived. He'd been suspended pending investigation of his relationship with Dana Walsh as well as his delay in reporting both his discovery of her past criminal record and her identity as Jenny Scott. Piled on top of that is his aiding and abetting Jack Bauer.

By the time the investigation is complete, he knows the suspension will likely be a full-fledged dismissal and there will probably be prison time involved. Eventually, the bodies of Kevin Wade and his buddy will surface; the connection will be made to Dana and eventually to him; the list of charges will grow.

He'd actually thought that was exactly what had happened when he'd been woken a second time by a call from Chloe a couple of hours ago. Ten seconds into it, however, it was clear that whatever it was, it wasn't about Kevin Wade and his friend.

With her first call, Chloe sounded stressed but apologetic. The second time, she sounded brusque and tense – not at all out of character for her – but she also sounded cryptic and there was an added edge to her voice when she requested to see him as soon as possible. When she revealed the location of the meet his curiosity had been piqued. It intrigued him even more when she swore him to silence and asked that he come armed with his own personal weapon if he had one.

Just under twenty minutes later, he found Chloe pacing the floor of a conference room in the ICU of St. Andrew's hospital.

Struggling with his own stress and anxiety, he'd gotten straight to the point.

"_What's this about, Chloe?"_

_Immediately, the woman stopped pacing and looked directly back at him, her expression more sullen than usual. _

"_It's about protecting Renee Walker," came her grim reply._

"_Renee Walker's dead," he declared flatly, not understanding._

"_Actually, she's not…" _

Over the next few minutes, he'd listened, stunned, as Chloe quickly laid out what she could of the situation. It took a moment for it all to set in. When it did, he pinned her with a dark look.

"_You've got to be kidding me!"_

"_I'm not."_

"_After everything that happened yesterday, you're telling me…" He ran a hand through his hair. "Unfreakingbelievable. Does Jack know?"_

_Chloe's eyes dropped and he could sense she was on the verge of exasperation. "I only found out last night, Cole. After we last saw Jack. So until we can find him…"_

"_Arlo's on it?"_

"_Yeah. There's nothing."_

_A thought struck him then. "What about the FBI and NSA? You said they arrested you, Chloe. You know they're not going to just -"_

"_We're being careful, Cole. But I need your focus on something else."_

Chloe had gone on to tell him about her understandable misgivings about the FBI and explained what she needed from him, namely, an added layer of protection that she could personally trust to ensure Renee's safety.

He had agreed without hesitation and a moment later, Chloe led him to Renee's room where a small, dark-haired woman he didn't recognize sat in a chair next to Renee's bed.

One look at Renee told him how bad the situation was.

"_Chloe, are you sure she's…"_

"_Look," Chloe had whispered sharply, "I'm sure about two things right now, Cole. That she's alive. And that we need to find Jack. Now I need you to help me make sure that first situation isn't altered by outside forces before we can accomplish the second. Okay?"_

He's been sitting here alone ever since Chloe returned to CTU and Janis Gold – a friend of Renee's and apparently the only FBI agent Chloe seems to remotely trust at the moment – left to get some sleep.

For the most part, the Kim Bauer protocol and the Renee Walker situation have been helping him keep his mind off the mess that his life has suddenly become. They've also kept him from going stir crazy at home while the investigation wears on. Still, every so often, he finds thoughts of Dana creeping back into his head and he has to make the effort to push them away.

He's been trying instead to think about the protection protocol, President Taylor's fall from grace or the aftermath of the now defunct peace process. Or about Renee Walker and Jack Bauer.

Tilting his head back to rest against the wall, Cole closes his eyes to rest them and he frowns.

He's been doing a _lot_ of thinking about Jack since yesterday and he's still working through it.

In many ways, Jack had been the type of agent he wanted to emulate. He'd heard many of the stories about him and though some of them had cast Jack in a less than flattering light, the vast majority of them were filled with accounts of his bravery and valor.

Cole knew Jack's methods could be harsh and objectionable at times but the man's courage and commitment and knowledge and skills in the field were virtually unparalleled; his instincts, unrivaled. Those are exactly the attributes he's tried to strive for in his own career.

At the start of it all, Jack Bauer was, for all intents and purposes, a good man and Cole could only consider it an honor to work alongside him.

But by the end of it…

By the end of it, Jack had pulled some pretty unbelievable and crappy shit.

The man had blatantly disregarded presidential orders. He hunted down and executed Dana in cold blood. He kidnapped a former president – wounding several Secret Service Agents and terrorizing dozens of innocent people in the process. He tortured and eviscerated one foreign diplomat, shot and impaled another, eliminated a security detail and had been prepared to assassinate a foreign president.

In short, he'd been willing… to start a war.

And he managed to manipulate Cole into helping him get started on that destructive path.

So while he had started his day with Jack Bauer respecting the man, now, he's not sure how he feels about him.

Essentially, the man had gone off the rails after believing Renee Walker had been lost to a sniper shot. Yes, there was also the truth of things that needed to be exposed – and it was a pretty damned major truth – but mostly, Jack appeared to be motivated by revenge. Anything else had been secondary. If it mattered at all.

And yet, at the same time…

At the same time, he's aware that he crossed the line himself yesterday, doing things he isn't proud of.

He shot and killed Kevin Wade's buddy – which probably wouldn't have been so bad in and of itself as it would be an easy argument for self-defense. But he'd not only abandoned his responsibilities at CTU for the off-book excursion, he'd dumped the bodies of both Wade and his friend, purposefully conspiring with Dana to cover it all up.

And as much as he'd love to put that on Dana, that had been _his_ play.

Then he'd lied to Hastings about his whereabouts and kept her past to himself, putting people and operations in jeopardy.

And he'd done it all out of love for a woman he ultimately discovered he didn't know.

His offenses hadn't stopped the moment he found out about her past, either. Or even when he learned she was a mole. Not only had he knowingly withheld the darker details of his side trip to find Dana from his official statement, when Chloe asked him what he knew about Prady this morning, he'd flat out lied to her, telling her he didn't know anything about him.

He doesn't even know why he did it. Maybe he was just hoping that it would all go away. Maybe, in the moment, he was shocked to find out Dana had actually killed the man.

Or maybe, as honorable as he'd like to consider himself, he's just not as ready to face the consequences of his actions as he thought he was.

In any case, after everything he's done because of a woman he loved, should he really be judging Jack for reacting so radically to the murder of a woman_ he_ cared for?

He opens his eyes and shifts his gaze to the woman in the bed. As with every other time he's looked at her today, he's taken aback by what he sees. She looks so different than the woman he last saw just yesterday morning – and not in a good way.

As his attention lingers on her for a moment, his eyes drifting from her face to the monitors and back to her face, it occurs to him that he doesn't really know much about Renee Walker.

Of course, he's known from the start, through his introduction to her at the briefing on the Russian mob operation, that she's former-FBI and that she'd been undercover with the Russians a few years ago. Based on those two facts alone, he'd guessed that she was – _is _– at the very least a competent and courageous woman who knows how to handle both herself and a gun.

He also knows she'd agreed to go undercover merely for the sake of doing the right thing. She'd put her life on the line and asked for nothing in return and that's told him something about her character.

Then there's her connection to Jack. While he's still not really sure what their history entails, he knows that she and Jack had worked together at some point in the past and that they were – _are_ – important to one another. That last fact had been apparent to him throughout his time with them – but never more so than in the hours after Jack believed she'd been killed.

He knows she's quiet. In fact, he can't even recall what her voice sounds like right now. Aside from a word or two of acknowledgement at the start of the briefing for the undercover op, the briefing itself and a few short exchanges at Laitanan's garage, he doesn't think she said a word directly to him the rest of the time he spent around her.

He also knows she has to be one hell of a fighter because in spite of how precarious her condition is at the moment, she's still with them. Honestly, for the life of him, he can't figure out how she survived the shooting long enough to make it to a hospital in the first place.

But beyond that, there is little that he knows about her and he considers what he can remember of their interactions for another few moments.

When he'd found her in Laitanan's office, Renee Walker had been anxious, edgy and jittery – unlike the tense but cool and reserved woman he'd met just a short time earlier back at CTU.

He knows only bits of what had happened, knows that Jack had been worried about her and that there had been a question of her mental or emotional stability hanging in the air. He didn't know enough about her to make that call but what he _did_ discern at the time – between what Jack said, what he knew of the situation Renee had been forced into with Laitanan in order to maintain her cover, what he saw of Laitanan and what he'd seen in Renee – was that she'd been through something traumatic.

Which is largely why he suggested the psych eval.

Hastings had used the word 'murder' to describe what Renee had done to Laitanan, but Cole is more inclined to believe Jack's explanation – that Laitanan attacked Renee and she defended herself. It was clear that she'd gone much farther than necessary, that her response had not only been defensive but emotional, but he'd seen the bruise forming on her face, the look in her eyes and her overall behavior at the scene.

And seeing Laitanan's body… Well, he's still not sure he wants to even try to imagine what he'd done to her that she responded like that.

Afterward, he'd been too busy and too distracted by Dana's situation to get the full story behind it all but he'd heard someone from the DOJ had been to CTU to interview Renee. And he knows Jack had struck a deal with Hastings that basically amounted to a trade. Him for her.

He doesn't really know what happened to her after that, but a couple of hours later, she had shown up out of nowhere at the docks where he and Jack were engaged in a firefight that seemed destined to end badly for both of them. She managed to get position on the snipers – something they hadn't been able to manage because they were so pinned down – and she easily picked them off, essentially saving both his life and Jack's.

What little he'd seen of her then told him that whatever shock she'd been in after killing Laitanan had either resolved or been pushed aside. He supposes that tells him something of her strength. Or at least her ability to compartmentalize things in order to get the job done.

He knows she was with Jack after that, working the Hassan transfer for the president. So regardless of what happened at Laitanan's, Jack trusted her enough to have her assist with the sensitive op.

He doesn't recall seeing her again until they were prepping for the Hassan rescue op and when that was over and she and Jack were leaving, she had walked past him with barely a glance, much less a word.

Cole blows the air from his lungs and shifts in his chair.

Personally, in the brief time he spent with Renee Walker, he hadn't gotten the impression she was unstable.

Quiet and tense and aloof? Definitely.

Traumatized as a result of whatever happened with Laitanan? Probably.

Unstable? He doesn't think so.

_But then,_ he thinks to himself, _Jack would know better than I would…_

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 1 <strong>_

_**2:06 pm**_

Chloe drops the Bluetooth earpiece back onto the conference table, scowling at it for a long moment.

The news Tim Woods just shared is neither expected nor welcome.

Apparently, the only physical confirmation of the Russians' involvement in Hassan's death and the channeling of the nuclear rods has vanished.

Completely.

Within an hour after President Taylor spoke with Jack, the evidence she had in her possession – Dana Walsh's video and Jack's recording of Logan's conversation with Suvarov – was turned over and logged into evidence with the Justice Department.

Somehow, in the hours since then, that evidence has disappeared. But it wasn't just that. While the log itself still exists, the entry that denotes the time and date when the evidence was delivered and logged in, as well as a description of the evidence itself, has been electronically erased.

The investigation has been well underway since the discrepancy was discovered early this morning, but Tim Woods has just now gotten around to notifying her. When she'd asked if they'd at least managed to make the copy of Jack's message for Kim before the evidence had gone missing, she was disappointed to learn that they hadn't. With everything else going on, the AG hadn't had a chance to examine the evidence in order to determine whether or not delivering the video to Kim was even possible.

Chloe leans back in her chair and rubs her temples, a dull headache having instantly set in during the call.

Clearly, the Russians themselves are at the top of the list of those who'd deem the evidence important enough to risk stealing it out of federal custody and erasing every trace of it ever having been there in the first place. How they managed to get past all the safeguards, however, she has no idea; thankfully, it's not falling on her shoulders to figure that out.

It briefly occurs to her that it could've been someone inside Taylor's administration in some misguided effort to short-circuit whatever consequences lie in wait for her – though she can't imagine why they'd think it would be a good idea or even how that would help.

The Russians, on the other hand, would have plenty of reasons; at the forefront would be saving Suvarov's presidency and administration. Without the evidence to back Taylor up, they can accuse her and Logan and even Dahlia Hassan of fabricating lies, acting on false and unsubstantiated information as well as purposely trying to sabotage both the Russian presidency and the country's reputation internationally.

As she continues to evaluate the implications, a knock interrupts her thoughts. She glances over her shoulder at the glass door to see Arlo standing outside her office.

"Come in," she calls, mentally crossing her fingers that he has good news. She can certainly use some.

By the time Arlo crosses the threshold of her office, however, she gets the sense it's anything but good news.

"I need to talk to you," he says the moment the door closes behind him. He stops, arching his brows as he really looks at her. "You look wiped."

"I am," she says irritably, "What is it?"

"First off, I thought you might want this," he says, handing her a cell phone. "It's secure. I have one, too. My number's programmed into yours. I just thought, after this morning…"

"Thanks," she mumbles, pocketing the phone. She hadn't really had time to put in motion a plan for how they should be proceeding after her run-in with the FBI this morning. She's grateful he has. "Is that all?"

Arlo shakes his head. "I've been cross-accessing all the agency servers like we talked about. This came through from Metro PD about an hour ago," he explains, handing her a data pad, "It's not good."

Chloe takes the handheld computer and glances at it, half-expecting to see a declaration that Jack Bauer has been shot and killed. Instead, when her eyes fall on the single statement it contains, she rolls her eyes and holds back a groan.

_11:58__ am - Meredith M. Reed, journalist, discovered dead in her residence on the lower east side._

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Not kidding," Arlo says, slipping his hands into his pockets. "They found her a couple of hours ago, but I've been looking into it. Coroner at the scene puts time of death at about four this morning. They're calling it a suicide."

Chloe doesn't miss the skepticism in his voice and she studies the dark-haired man across from her. "Was it?"

"Well, according to my source at the PD, she hung herself. And there was a note found at the scene. Apparently written by her. Said something about being distraught over Omar Hassan's death."

Chloe leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest, a nagging itch beginning to surface in the back of her mind. The story is sounding far too similar to Sergei Bazhaev's death for her comfort level. "But?"

"But here's the thing," Arlo goes on, "They did an inventory of her place? And there's no trace of her computer."

"So? Wasn't it confiscated when we swept her apartment and took her into custody?"

"We gave it back when we released her," he states with a shake of his head.

"Then it was probably seized by the FBI when _they_ took her into custody."

"It wasn't. I checked. Chloe… Reed was a reporter. With a big story to tell. And there's not even a laptop at her place?" He pauses and arches his brows. "I'm just saying."

Chloe easily sees his point. "And why would she commit suicide when she's about to write the biggest story of her career…"

"Exactly," Arlo says eagerly, sliding into a chair on the other side of the table, "There's more."

"Great," she mumbles sarcastically.

"The whole reason the cops found her?" he says, the excitement in his voice hard to miss, "Her editor sent them to her apartment. Apparently, she called him the instant the FBI cut her loose to arrange a meeting for ten o'clock this morning so they could discuss her article. She was a no-show."

"Okay…"

"Part of his concern rested with the fact that he woke up this morning to discover that both his home and the newspaper suffered break-ins overnight. I checked with Metro PD. Odd thing was? Only one thing was listed as missing in each case."

Chloe raises a hand to rub at her forehead, already seeing where this is headed. "Don't tell me."

"The hard drive of the editor's computer and his personal laptop. I spoke with him before I came up here, Chloe. His laptop held the only copy he had of the draft of Reed's article."

Chloe pinches the bridge of her nose. "I can't believe this."

"I know."

"No, Arlo. You don't." She sighs and drops her hand, pinning him with frustrated eyes. "I just got off the phone with Tim Woods. Both Dana Walsh's video and Jack's data card are missing."

"What? How the hell did that happen?"

Chloe doesn't answer. Her brain is already speeding through the connections. Dana's video and Jack's audio recording are gone. Meredith Reed's account of things has been stolen as well. And, though the Russians probably don't even know of its existence, it's unlikely the FBI will ever be swayed to release their one-sided recording of Tokarev.

Which leaves only the human element to make the link to the Russians.

Suvarov certainly isn't going to implicate himself and, in light of her recent activities, Taylor's word could be challenged and her version of events deemed suspect. At worst, she could be completely discredited.

Excluding the president's admission, Dahlia Hassan has only Meredith Reed's claim – a claim apparently heard second hand – to back her up and that could be dismissed easily enough in a variety of ways.

Charles Logan is incapacitated. Jason Pillar? Dead. Eden Linley, whose accident suddenly feels like much less of an accident than it did before Arlo walked in, also dead. Sergei Bazhaev and Meredith Reed, dead. Dana Walsh, Mikhail Novakovich and Pavel Tokarev… All, dead.

Aside from Suvarov and Taylor, she can list on one hand the people who still have enough first-hand knowledge to be witnesses who can even _remotely_ connect the Russians to everything that went down.

And she'd have three fingers left over.

Jack's on the run so he won't be corroborating anything.

Which leaves…

"Earth to Chloe?" Arlo says, snapping his fingers.

"Dammit," she mutters.

"What do you want me to do?"

She squeezes her temples between her fingers. "You can get me some Tylenol for starters," she grumbles, "And then you can get back to finding Jack."

"Okay, but what are _you_ going to do?" he asks as he stands and starts for the door.

Chloe is already picking up the phone. "I have some calls to make."


	8. Chapter 8

Glad you stopped by to check this out and thanks to those of you kind enough to leave your thoughts!

Enjoy...

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 2 <strong>_

_**07:09 am**_

_**North Atlantic Ocean**_

Edwin Murro sits at his desk in the infirmary on _The Ophelia_, two outdated medical books spread open in front of him. His brow furrowed, his dark eyes shift between the pictures of various wounds in one book and the text in the other.

He's spent a good portion of yesterday evening and last night consulting the books he keeps on board, wanting to be sure he's doing whatever he can to help John West.

He's also spent some time considering both the situation and the man himself.

He can't deny the intense curiosity he's been feeling since the captain summoned him to the infirmary early yesterday morning and he walked in to find John West nearly unconscious on one of the three exam tables.

The skipper, in his usual succinct manner, had explained that the man was a recent addition to the deck crew and was in need of medical assistance – the latter of which had been obvious the moment Edwin had laid eyes on him. The captain hadn't expanded on things; he'd merely taken him aside, said that discretion was essential and instructed him to do what he could to help.

He had. And, sensing that "discretion" included not only keeping his mouth shut but also not asking more questions about it than necessary, he'd done that, too. He's been around long enough, taken enough orders over the years to know when to do as he's told and when to push the envelope a little. He's also been around long enough to know that once he does the former, the opportunity to do the latter may also present itself.

He flips a page in one of the books, half-skimming through the information he's already read, half-musing to himself while he waits for John West to arrive.

With no further explanation to go by, his imagination has been busy drumming up various scenarios as to how John sustained his injuries. While he's no closer to figuring out what the man's story is this morning than he was last night, it's obvious it's not been an entirely pleasant one.

Upon first glance yesterday – given his pallid complexion and clammy skin, the grimace, the visible layer of sweat on his face and the way he was breathing – Edwin had thought John had the flu. Or perhaps a particularly nasty stomach bug.

Then he'd gotten a look at the wounds.

On John's torso he'd found what he eventually decided were two knife wounds – both, on the left side; one, a deep slice along his ribs; the other, a shallow stab wound to his abdomen that, from what he could tell, somehow missed puncturing his intestines. There was also what he'd guessed to be the entrance wound left by a bullet that had exited through the back of his left shoulder – a bullet that, again from what he could tell, miraculously missed damaging the man's lung.

The man was lucky. _Extremely_ lucky.

Though those appeared to be the most major of his injuries, they were hardly the only ones Edwin found.

High on his right arm, there was a gash left by God only knows what and there was some faint bruising around his elbow. On his back, along with the exit wound, he'd found at least two areas of skin that were slightly discolored and looked to have sustained some sort of minor burns. There also appeared to be some tenderness along his ribs and though there was only the faintest discoloration along them, the sensitivity there was enough for him to conclude that at the very least, they'd been bruised. That conclusion had been confirmed when, concerned they might actually be broken, he'd asked John about them.

As he was getting a look at it all, he'd thought perhaps the man had been in a bar fight. After all, it wouldn't be the first time in his years at sea that one of the men had come back from a port with injuries sustained in such a way. But the longer he worked on the wounds, the more he'd gotten the sense that the man's injuries were the result of more than a simple bar fight.

For a brief moment, he'd considered the possibility that, like a handful of sailors he's known, John might be one of those men who feel compelled to fight in the underground clubs when he's between ship assignments. Though it was another scenario that might explain some of the scars and the pain tolerance, something about the man made him discard the idea nearly as quickly as it occurred to him.

Among other things, there was the small matter of the man's face.

Aside from a little faint bruising, a scratch above his left eye and a minor cut on the right side of his forehead – none of which appeared to require his care – there had been no apparent wounds on the man's face, which is generally where he'd find the worst of it. There was no split lip, no major bruising or swelling that required ice. There were no lost teeth that he could see and no major lacerations to stitch up.

The scars scattered along his chest, arms and back also add to the silent narrative of the man and further intrigue him. Most of those he's seen seem fairly indiscernible as to their sources but Edwin still has his guesses about a few of them.

He figures at least one or two of the older, faded scars could be the result of more stab wounds and at least one could be the result of another gunshot wound. A couple more could be the result of some sort of surgery while one other scar, or set of scars actually, he'd swear to be the result of some sort of chemical burn.

The rest of the scars on his arms and chest – and there were many more, some barely noticeable, others more prominent – he has no idea.

While they'd all made him cringe inwardly, there was one set of scars on his back that left him feeling particularly troubled. Some wavy, some straight, all long and raised, they are no ordinary scars. Their shape and pattern planted the seed that perhaps the man had, at some point, seen military duty and been taken prisoner – a situation that might also explain some of the other scars. It was also a scenario that made Edwin shudder.

Whatever the sources of the wounds and scars, it quickly became clear that this is hardly John's first experience with physical altercation or with pain.

As for the man himself, from what he's been able to tell of him so far, John West is a polite enough man and, if the tattoo on his left forearm – one of a few that have him curious – is any indication, quite possibly religious, too. He is also inordinately quiet and reserved. What Edwin hasn't determined yet is whether that's his nature or just the man in the moment. After all, he's worked with a lot of seamen in his years and pretty much every one of them has at least one or two… eccentricities; being quiet would be among the least unpleasant he's run across.

Yet while John seems soft-spoken with little to say, he's also tough as nails. Not many men he's known would be able to handle the pain the way John seems to be handling it. That and the self-discipline he senses in the man only seem to further reinforce the notion that he could be ex-military.

Beyond the physical trauma and exhaustion that was so evident in him yesterday, the man's eyes have also added to the picture. In fact, his eyes have been what clued Edwin into the fact that whatever ordeal John's been through may not just be of the physical sort.

Not only were his eyes swollen and bloodshot yesterday morning, they seemed guarded and weary.

Road weary.

Life weary.

And, aside from a fleeting glimpse or two of sadness and anger, they also appeared to be closed off. Much like the man himself appeared to be. Behind those shuttered eyes, however, he's picked up on a sharp intelligence. It seems to be masked by the exhaustion at times but it's there.

As the hours passed yesterday, Edwin thought he might've been given his first clue as to what may have happened. When John finally gave in to sleep – and it was clearly something he'd been fighting against – he seemed to have fever-induced nightmares. Or at least that's what Edwin had taken them for, given what he'd seen in the man at the time.

Even in his sleep, the man was quiet but there had been a few occasions when Edwin heard the man mumbling. For the most part, it was unintelligible, but there were two separate times he'd heard a woman's name cross his lips. At least one of those times, he'd heard the word 'sorry' quickly follow.

Edwin hadn't said anything about it to John when he'd woken up a short time later – something he'd done with a start – but it's left him wondering if perhaps a woman might have something to do with the condition he's in. And this morning, it's that scenario that has led him to revisit the idea of a fight or brawl.

Some of the more intense fights he's seen between men over the years have been over the fairer sex. Mostly, that had been while he was in the Navy and during his early years in the merchant marines but with most captains in the union – including Quentin Tucker – less tolerant of that kind of behavior, it's been a long time since he's seen it on the ships. And, while his memory isn't what it used to be, he's fairly certain none of those fights had ended in a gunshot wound.

Still, if all this_ is_ the result of a fight, he can't help wondering how bad off the other guy might be.

Finally, there's the gunshot wound itself.

He's aware that injury alone would've sparked a mandatory call to the police had John gone to any emergency room or clinic before coming aboard, which he clearly hadn't done. Not that he hadn't gotten help before he'd seen him. On the contrary, it became clear yesterday that someone had helped John out with a couple of his injuries. But the fact that, rather than getting treated at a hospital, John had chosen the less than ideal option of the infirmary has led him to briefly entertain the idea that John might be a man walking on the wrong side of the law.

Avoiding a hospital with the injuries he's sustained would fit if that's the case. So would the 'discretion' part of it all.

Then again, considering the scars, it's also possible that the man just has an aversion to doctors and medical facilities. Or maybe he merely doesn't have the money. Or it could be that to him, making the job is more important than his health. Really, there could be any number of explanations for not going to a hospital just as there could be any number of explanations for the man's condition.

Still, he's never considered himself a naïve man. While he senses that John West is not a man in search of violence in order to satisfy a craving, he's also sensed that he's not a man to be trifled with and that he is, potentially, a dangerous man.

_But then aren't we all…_ Edwin muses as he adjusts his glasses, _Potentially just about anything. _

And in the end, while he can't discount the idea of John being a felon, something about the man makes Edwin _want_ to like and trust him. Plus, if the company's hired him on and the skipper hadn't thrown him off the ship after finding him in this condition, then that says a lot about him right there.

At the sound of the infirmary door squeaking open, Edwin glances up from the medical texts and, over the rims of his glasses, sees John walking through the door.

He frowns the instant he gets a look at him.

When John left the infirmary late yesterday evening – after Edwin changed some of his dressings a second time and nearly force-fed him dinner – he hoped the man would get some decent sleep and be feeling at least a little better this morning. By his expression and color, the shadows under his bloodshot eyes and the fact that he's breathing harder than he should be, Edwin sees that's not the case. In fact, he doesn't look any better than yesterday and that snapshot assessment is enough to worry him.

_I should've insisted on having him flown out the moment I saw him_, he chastises himself_._ Yet he suspects that's no more an acceptable option to John now than it was yesterday.

"You don't look like you got much rest last night," he says with concern, watching as John carefully lowers himself into the chair nearest the door.

John wipes the perspiration from his brow. "I got some off and on," he mutters.

Edwin pushes himself to his feet, the stiffness in his knees and hips reminding him that the day when he's going to have to give up this life and retire is approaching faster than he'd like. Closing the books, he grabs his stethoscope, the blood pressure cuff and a handheld oxygen monitor and makes his way over to John.

"By the looks of you," he says with arched brows, "I'd say it was more off than on."

John snorts softly. "Yeah."

"You did okay with the oxygen tank last night?" Edwin asks as he places the oxygen sensor on one of John's fingers. As he does so, he notes that the tremor that had been present in John's hands yesterday remains. He can also feel the heat in his skin without even touching him.

"Fine," the man replies before quietly adding, "Thanks."

"Good. We'll probably have to switch it out for a new one tonight, but we'll worry about that later."

Edwin shifts his eyes to the monitor in his hand, frowning at the reading. When he gets a glimpse of the man's heart rate, he shakes his head. "Well," he sighs, "Taking into account the fact you just made the trip from your quarters without the oxygen, I suppose it could be worse."

The man in the chair says nothing, merely continues looking ready to collapse on the spot. Before he can, Edwin trades the oxygen sensor for a blood pressure cuff. A moment later, when he has the reading, he removes the stethoscope from his ears and shakes his head again.

"You can definitely still use the IV fluids," he says as he takes the cuff off.

_And probably a blood transfusion, too_, he silently adds, switching his attention to taking the man's temperature.

He watches as John stares down at his hands and rubs the palm of his left hand with the thumb of his right as if trying to stave off a cramp or rid himself of the tremor.

"Fever's still up there," he says, glancing at the display on the thermometer. "You took the Tylenol and the antibiotic?"

"An hour ago," John says quietly, reaching into the pocket of his jeans to retrieve a prescription bottle. "Here's the other one."

Edwin takes it and glances at the label. It doesn't have a patient's name but he recognizes the name of the medication.

"Good," he says, setting the bottle aside, "I'll look it up later and we'll see which one to go with. Honestly, I may not be a real doctor but experience tells me you could probably use both of them. In the meantime, up on the table with you. You need oxygen and fluids and I think we should give you some ice packs and more Ibuprofen to help with the fever."

John rises to his feet with a grunt and a grimace and when he sways slightly, Edwin reaches out to steady him.

"Thanks," the man mumbles.

"I've been doing some reading up in the books," Edwin says as he closely follows him over to the nearest exam table. He draws the curtain to afford them some privacy should someone else walk through the door. "I think we're doing everything we can given what we have to work with. But I have to say, I wish we were in a hospital. I think you need a lot more than what I've got here."

John doesn't respond, merely groans softly as he climbs up onto the table. Edwin supposes he isn't commenting because he knows he's right.

He reaches for the oxygen tubing. "I think we'll try switching to this today," he says, handing John the simple tubing for his nose instead of the mask, "If we need to, we'll switch back but I want to see how you do with it."

Once he's hooked John up to another bag of IV fluids and given him the ice and Ibuprofen, he turns around to grab a small pile of supplies, making a mental note to pick up replacements in the next port.

Returning to John's side, he gives him a small, hopeful smile. "I don't suppose I can talk you into some stronger pain medication today."

John answers with a slight shake of his head. "I'll be fine," he says quietly, closing his eyes for the briefest of moments before his features tighten and he opens them again.

Edwin arches his brows, once again curious as to why the man is willingly putting himself through the pain when he can do something to at least take the edge off.

"Okay then," he says with a nod, "since you're still sitting up, we'll start with your back."

John draws a breath as if to steel himself for the pain and Edwin helps him out of his rumpled shirt.

_Same shirt as yesterday,_ he realizes suddenly, then spots the familiar dark reddish-brown smears and spots on the dark denim, _Same jeans, too._

He wonders briefly just how exhausted the man must have been – must _still_ be – if he hadn't had the energy to change his clothes between last night and this morning. He stops himself from speculating further for the moment.

"When we're done," he says, gently peeling back the bandage covering the exit wound on John's left shoulder, "I'll get some breakfast for us. Martin cooked this morning, so it's breakfast burritos with green chili. They're usually pretty good."

John turns his head slightly. "Thanks, Edwin," the man mumbles and though the attempt to smile is there, he doesn't quite manage it.

With no further comment from the man, Edwin gets down to work, gently probing the area around the exit wound with gloved fingertips. It looks only slightly better than yesterday and it still looks angry. He imagines it also still hurts like a sonofabitch. Judging by the sharp intake of breath and the tight groan he hears as he begins removing the gauze packed into it, it appears he's imagining correctly.

"You should know that I spoke with the skipper last night," he says in the hope of distracting the man from the pain, but instantly, he feels the man tense even further under his fingers.

He glances over the rims of his glasses at John's profile and something in the man's face makes him wonder if that tension is more than just a response to the physical discomfort he's feeling.

"We both agree," he goes on as he returns to cleaning as gently as he can, "It's probably best if we just assign you to work here in the infirmary for now. Just for a week or so, so I can keep an eye on you. Then you can go back to doing deckhand work if you want. But I think that for now, we can all agree you're not up to that kind of job."

"Thank you," John says, and not only does Edwin catch the sincerity in his quiet voice but he also notices the added tension in him seems to ebb a little.

"Trust me, we can always find something for you to work on that won't push you too hard," he goes on, dropping yet another piece of bloodied gauze into the garbage bin at his feet. "For now though, we'll continue changing your dressings, giving you fluids and letting you rest. You can take up any difference in pay with the captain."

He glances at John's profile again to find him staring stoically straight ahead. When he says nothing in response, Edwin also falls silent, concentrating on the task at hand.

When he's finished with the exit wound, he applies a bulky dressing and turns his attention to the small burns on John's back. He cleans the areas and applies more antibiotic ointment to them before moving on to the gash on his right arm.

Finally, Edwin has him lay back on the exam table so he can begin working on the collection of wounds on his chest. He shifts his attention to the deep slice along his ribs first.

This particular wound has been yet another thing that has left him puzzled. While the work done at the entrance and exit wounds in his shoulder seemed moderately adequate, whoever helped him had been much less attentive with this wound. The stitching job alone was the sloppiest he's ever seen.

After a few more minutes of silence, John surprises him by asking about his service in the Navy. Suspecting that it's the man's attempt to pass the time and keep his mind off the pain, Edwin obliges and talks a bit about his experience as a navy corpsman, sharing a few of the more interesting medical tales he's stacked up over the years.

It isn't long before he finds himself testing the waters with what he feels is a relatively harmless question.

"And you?" he asks quietly, "Do any time in the service?"

For a long moment, John doesn't respond and Edwin debates the merits of repeating the question or letting it go unanswered. He's just about to change the subject when the man finally speaks.

"Army," he answers quietly before shifting his gaze away. "A long time ago."

Edwin nods. One more piece of the puzzle that is John West laid out on the table, albeit reluctantly and without further details.

"Army's tough," he acknowledges, "It's all tough. But it's a good way to serve your country and see the world."

Sensing he's not going to get anything else out of him at the moment, Edwin continues to talk about the virtues of serving your country for a few more minutes. Then he finds himself telling John about another result of his service in the Navy: meeting his wife on an unexpected leave in San Diego.

When he finishes the story a few minutes later, he takes another chance and probes a little.

"How about you?" he asks, as he starts applying a new dressing, "Got a woman back home?"

"No," John whispers tightly.

Edwin doesn't miss the strain in his voice. Nor does he miss the fact that the man has tensed again.

_So,_ he concludes, _some part of whatever he's been through _does_ have to do with a woman. Maybe the one he mentioned yesterday…_

Still, sensing that in his attempt to satisfy his curiosity he's inadvertently hit a nerve and that it's not the best idea to continue exploring the subject right now, he tries to smooth it over.

"That's too bad," he replies and returns to a safer subject – his wife. "Every man needs a good woman to take care of him. Take my wife Marcia, for instance. You should see the way she…"

* * *

><p>Increasingly restless, Jack adjusts his aching body on the table and stares at the ceiling above him, struggling to not cut Edwin off as he talks about his wife.<p>

He'd prompted the man's story about his time in the Navy with the goal of keeping his mind off his own life and the fact that he still feels like shit. It had succeeded. For a while. But the moment Edwin started talking about his wife, Jack could feel the itch of discomfort beginning to set in somewhere in the back of his mind.

It's small talk, he knows, serving basically the same function as asking about his time in the service had, but now it's turned into more than that. Under other circumstances, he probably wouldn't think anything of it, but right now, it's just another reminder of everything he's lost.

Still, he lets him go on for a while longer, waiting for an opening to change the subject. It comes a few minutes later after Edwin finishes telling him about his wife's talent in the kitchen and begins peeling back the dressing covering the lower of his two stab wounds.

_Renee's wound,_ he acknowledges with a wince as the man begins to clean the sensitive area.

Even without closing his eyes, he can still see the wild look in her eyes as she turned around and made contact with him and he remembers how, in an instant, that look had turned to shock and horror at understanding too late that he was the one pulling her off of Laitanan.

"You carry a lot of supplies," he points out tiredly, hoping to get the man – and himself – on a different topic, "More than I expected."

"No more than any other ship you've ever worked, I think," Edwin says without missing a beat.

As a shiver passes through him, Jack silently chastises himself. He's supposed to know that. He's not Jack Bauer anymore. He's John West, merchant mariner. "Guess I never had much use for it until now," he mumbles.

"Well, we gotta be prepared when you're at sea as long as we usually are. Men get sick and with the machinery and cargo, they can get injured. Of course, if it's too bad, we get on the radio and airlift them out but I haven't had to do that for a while now. I'm sure you've noticed the union's good at keeping safety a priority. Still, accidents do happen. In fact…"

Another few minutes pass while Edwin tells him a few brief stories about the various injuries he's seen in his years in the merchant marines_, _but when he switches his attention to the entrance wound in Jack's chest, he falls quiet again.

The silence doesn't help Jack, either. Not only does he start to feel the cold, pain and weariness in his body more acutely, soon, in spite of his efforts to steer them, his thoughts begin to roam; likely a result of Edwin's extolling the culinary virtues of his wife, they drift first to Teri.

In all their years of marriage, her cooking had become one of the many things he'd taken for granted. Her naturally creative and artistic nature had spilled over into her food, a talent he'd appreciated most early on in their marriage when money was particularly tight. He remembers being amazed – and grateful – at how she could take a dish as simple as ramen noodles and transform it into something much more complex and delicious.

In the years since she was killed, he's lost count of the number of times he would've traded anything just to sit down with her and eat whatever she'd made for dinner. Or for that matter, just to sit with her one more time and just… _be_ with her.

His mind lingers on her for a while, remembering some of the little things that he'd treasured about her, the things he misses most about her, the things only he knew about her.

Before long, Audrey seeps into his thoughts and he recalls that, though she tried on a few occasions early in their relationship, she couldn't cook anything more complex than a simple spaghetti dish. That had surprised him initially, knowing that she'd basically been the woman of the house after her mother died. He later learned from her that there had been a live-in nanny around most of the time and that even at a young age, Audrey's interests and ambitions resided far beyond the realm of the kitchen.

He doesn't fight it as his thoughts drift between Teri and Audrey. Because while the guilt associated with what happened to them remains with him, and while it still hurts, will _always_ hurt, time has dulled some of the pain tied in with thoughts of them.

Soon, however, his mind returns to a much fresher loss and he finds himself wondering about Renee's culinary skills.

And from there, from one simple, relatively innocuous thread in his mind, it begins. Before he knows it, before he can stop it, he finds himself pondering the same paradox he first began contemplating while he was still trapped in a hospital bed in D.C. and has revisited many times since.

How is it possible to feel so close to someone, to feel intimately tied to them and care deeply about them, when you've only known them for a matter of _hours_?

As it had months ago, it still seems incredible to him, given as close as he felt – _feels_… no _felt, _god he's struggling just to sort out the tenses – as close as he _feels_ to Renee, just how little he knows about her.

He'd been forced to confront that cruel fact again in the moments after her death when the woman in hospital scrubs asked about her parents. It probably would have felt like someone was pouring acid into an open wound if he hadn't still been struggling to comprehend what had just happened.

He _doesn't_ know about Renee's parents. Or any other family she may have had, for that matter. He has no idea if she could cook. He has no clue as to what her favorite food was much less her favorite color. And it strikes him now, that though he desperately wishes he had, he never got the chance to hear her laugh.

There are just so many things he doesn't know about her and wishes to God he did. The list could go on and on.

Eyes still trained on the ceiling, his fingers slowly curl themselves into fists at his sides. He's been robbed of learning all of the precious little details about her. And the loss of her, the loss of the potential of what they might have had between them, is like a crushing weight bearing down on him.

In an effort to push the quickly rising anger aside, he tries to tell himself that it doesn't really matter. It doesn't matter, because he already knows what is important. He knows _– knew_… no, _knows –_ _her._

He knows that Renee Walker was a good soul who had stepped off the path – or, more accurately, had been pushed off the path. By him.

He knows that she was good at her job. _Really_ good. He also suspects that her job had become intrinsic to her being and that when she lost it, she had to have felt like she'd lost an enormous and irreplaceable piece of herself.

He knows that, in spite of having no concrete reason whatsoever to do so, she seemed to trust him from the start. And that it cost her.

He knows that as cool and hard as she could appear on the outside, she seemed just as sensitive and soft on the inside. And that it had appeared on that first day, for the most part, as if she may have actually managed to achieve a bit of balance between the two. Until he came along and disrupted it.

He knows that she was striking in a way that hit him the moment he saw her stride past him at the Senate hearings but also that her beauty was the kind that had layers and depths to it, layers and depths that he will never get the chance to explore or understand.

He knows that she was stubborn in a way that frustrated him but that he understood and appreciated at the same time.

He knows that her eyes… her eyes captured him almost immediately after meeting her and, in one way or another, in person or in his thoughts or dreams or imagination, they've held him captive ever since.

He knows that there had been a tenacity, a strength in her, that first day that had pulled at him. And, in spite of whatever demons she carried with her; in spite of everything that happened during the course of that first day and the months that followed; in spite of what she'd been through in the hours he'd spent with her just… God, has it already been – _only_ been – two days ago that she died? In spite of all of that, that reservoir of resolve and strength was still there in her. He had seen that, even if she couldn't.

He knows the pit she'd fallen into. _Intimately._ The pit with walls too high and steep to let you see life beyond them. The pit where, in spite of your best efforts to climb out, you invariably find yourself sliding right back into it and you either give up or keep trying to get out but it doesn't really matter because neither choice seems to lead you anywhere anyway. The pit where the darkness is so thick and empty it eventually suffocates you into accepting it as your only reality.

And he knows that if he'd just listened to his instincts and kept her in place running ops instead of bringing her into the assault, if they'd just been left alone after Hassan's death, if he'd just had more time with her, he'd have been able to help her see…

"You okay?"

Jack blinks hard. Only now does he realize just how tense his body has become. He can feel the anger and grief sitting in his throat threatening to choke him. He closes his eyes and tries to swallow it all down again.

She had asked once – no, _demanded_ – to know if he felt anything, if he was capable of feeling pain. God, if she had only known just how deeply the pain could cut him.

"John?" he hears Edwin prompt.

Jack doesn't look at him. "Yeah," he lies to Edwin, to himself, "Fine."

"The pain must be bad, I know," the other man says with a sympathetic tone, "Let me see what more I can give you."

_It's okay,_ Jack wants to say, _I can handle it._ _I have before._

But he's not sure he can anymore, not this kind of pain. Not again.

So he remains silent, wondering now if he ever truly managed to make it out of the pit himself or if it's all just been an illusion.


	9. Chapter 9

Thanks for stopping by and especially to those taking the time to leave your thoughts on the story so far!

Enjoy...

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 2 <strong>_

_**10:35 am**_

_**New York City**_

Janis sinks into the chair next to Renee's bed, a small relieved smile tugging at a corner of her mouth.

"Good job, Renee…" she says, reaching for Renee's right hand, squeezing it gently.

Things seem to be finally turning a corner.

Just after six this morning – and nearly two full days after Renee was shot – the doctors once again began the process of trying to get her off the ventilator. This time, Renee's body rose to the challenge and within the past half-hour, the breathing tube was finally removed.

In addition to that milestone, they've also stopped the medication keeping her sedated and her blood pressure has improved enough that they've begun tapering down the medication that's been helping maintain it. So far, while her pressure remains on the low side, the nurse says she appears to be holding her own.

And, though it might just be her imagination seeing what it wants to see, not only does Renee's face appear to have finally lost some of its puffiness over the past two days, Janis would swear her color seems a little better this morning, too.

She gives the monitors a quick glance and notes that the odd beats that have made her nervous since she first arrived seem to be coming less frequently than before.

She's no doctor but she's taking it all as a positive sign.

With all the changes, Janis has lobbied to have the restraints removed from Renee's wrists. The doctors agreed as long as someone remains with her at all times but since Renee hasn't been left alone for more than a minute since Janis arrived thirty-six hours ago, that has never really been an issue.

It's likely to be even less of one now.

Late yesterday afternoon, Chloe came by to check on Renee and shared her theory that the Russians are working to eliminate all traces of their involvement in what happened two days ago. Janis has to admit, she'd been caught off guard by some of what the woman had to say.

While SAC Jackson had already briefed her on the murder of Samir Mehran and the implied connection to the nuclear rods as well as the murder of President Hassan, up until Chloe told her, she hadn't been aware there was video evidence to back that up. Nor was she aware that Jack managed to record Logan and Suvarov discussing Suvarov's complicity.

And, from the hourlies, she'd known that the FBI had detained a reporter by the name of Meredith Reed. But the reports hadn't stated why and that information hadn't been included in her briefing with Jackson, either, so she was surprised to learn _that _story as well.

Even before Chloe said the actual words, Janis had known what it all meant for Renee, that though the continued threat to her life had already been there in theory, it had suddenly become even more real.

That knowledge has done nothing to calm her nerves and since that conversation, she's felt even more tense and worried, in spite of the additional steps they've taken.

Chloe had already spoken to Jackson long before she came to the hospital to see her yesterday. She can't imagine how thick the tension between them had to have been since the FBI actually arrested Chloe early yesterday morning – a development that had stunned Janis since they'd given her no indication the arrest was in the works. Part of her would've liked to have been a fly on the wall just to see the interaction between them.

In any case, Chloe's particular brand of personality and reasoning must have won out because after that conversation, Jackson re-evaluated the protection plan. He'd added one more position to the perimeter and two more agents to the rotation to ensure Renee's safety.

Still, Chloe felt that merely reinforcing personnel and tightening the security net wasn't enough.

She convinced Jackson to print an obituary for Renee in the papers this morning rather than wait for Renee to come around and formally accept an offer of Witness Protection.

She'd also argued to get Renee's listing in the hospital system changed from "Jane Doe" to an actual name.

She was right and it makes Janis cringe that the FBI hadn't considered doing that before. "Jane Doe" was just begging someone to dig into things. So they fortified her back story, set up an alias and began the process of vetting the staff again, making sure those who may know of Renee's real situation is being kept to a minimum.

Finally, Chloe decided that Cole Ortiz – the CTU agent she initially arranged to stay with Renee at night or whenever Janis isn't there – will now be in the room for up to 18 hours a day, whether she's there or not, taking only the time needed to eat or sleep. Even then, he won't be far.

Janis draws a deep breath and exhales, trying to get her body to relax. In spite of the positive steps forward Renee's made, it refuses her effort.

Hearing the faint noises of the busy ICU beyond the sliding glass door, she finds her gaze drifting toward the curtain for a moment. She hopes that the new precautions will be enough to keep Renee safe until she can recover and make it into Witness Protection but she also knows that no matter how careful they are, no matter how well they think they have the bases covered, where there's a will, there's a way.

_And if they find out she's alive…_

Janis stops herself from going there and in an attempt to distract herself from the worry, she looks back at Renee.

"You're doing great," she says quietly, squeezing her hand again, "You can wake up anytime now."

And as she waits for that to happen, Janis leans back in her chair and considers the fact that these hours will probably be the last she ever gets to spend with her friend.

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 2<strong>_

_**01:01 pm**_

_**North Atlantic Ocean**_

It isn't until Jack is sitting up on the edge of the exam table trying to swallow down some of the lunch that Edwin brought him that he spots a short wave radio sticking out of a box on a lower shelf of one of the cabinets along the far wall near Edwin.

"Edwin," he says quietly, his eyes unwavering from the box, "does that work?"

Edwin looks up from his sandwich as if surprised by the sound of Jack's voice. He follows Jack's gaze and shrugs. "Sometimes. Depends where we are. We're probably not too far off the coast right now so we may be able to pick something up."

A few minutes later, Edwin has it set up. The reception is poor and most of the stations are drowning in static but eventually, Edwin lands on a station out of Virginia Beach.

By the time the station provides the quick, thirty-second news update that Jack has been waiting for, he's already finished what little he could tolerate of the lunch, taken another dose of the antibiotics along with some more Tylenol and is lying down again, about to drift off to sleep in spite of his attempts to stave it off.

"Whoa!" Edwin exclaims from a corner counter where he is working to repair what Jack guesses must be a small piece of engine machinery, "What did she just say?"

Jack says nothing as Edwin moves to turn up the volume. As he expected, the bulk of the report is about Hassan's assassination in New York City two days ago, the devastating failure of the peace accord and the shocking resignation of President Taylor.

"I heard about Hassan before we left," Edwin mutters in disbelief as the station returns to its regular program, "But President Taylor_ resigned_? Are they serious? I actually liked her."

Jack frowns, his anger and disappointment over Taylor's actions flaring for a moment. "Me too," he admits softly.

_Liked. Respected. Would've willingly taken a bullet for…_

"I mean, I didn't even vote for her," Edwin goes on, still grappling with the news, "but she actually turned out to be the best we've had since… since David Palmer! I just can't believe she'd cover up an assassination after what she did to her daughter. I don't know. I've never trusted the Russians but… What the_ hell _happened? You know anything about it?"

Jack shakes his head in a wordless lie that, because he's so busy fiddling with the radio in an attempt to find a news program that will give him more information, Edwin probably doesn't even see.

It isn't until nearly three hours later, when Edwin returns from fixing a faulty water pump, that he manages to find another static-filled station. This time, the news segment is longer and he and Edwin listen with interest as the broadcaster recaps the upheaval taking place in the global political arena.

From the initial segment, Jack learns that, as she said she would, President Taylor not only resigned her office but also held a press conference to share some of the more major points of what took place that day. From the little the newscaster says about the press conference itself, it appears the president didn't quite share everything, not that he'd really expected her to.

As a result of Taylor stepping down, Vice President Mitchell Hayworth has been sworn in and is promising that the administration will cooperate with both the Attorney General's office and the UN during their respective investigations "in the wake of this international political disaster."

The primary newscaster then defers to a reporter apparently on site outside the UN to discuss the latest developments.

"_Thank you, David," _the woman reveals with a seasoned voice and a fading English accent, _"It's difficult to believe that only __two days ago__, these three countries were on the brink of signing an agreement that would have led this world into an era of peace that was once only a dream. Now, that peace has dissolved into a level of turmoil no one could have predicted. _

"_Questions still surround the state of affairs on the global stage today as President Suvarov and the Russian government continue to staunchly deny involvement in the assassination of Kamistani President Omar Hassan here in New York just hours before the agreement was to be signed."_

Jack frowns as she goes on.

"_They also continue to reject claims that they participated in the trafficking of nuclear materials that the U.S. alleges were converted into a dirty bomb – a dirty bomb that was nearly detonated on U.S. soil by the same IRK oppositionists responsible for the gruesome execution of the IRK president over the internet. With neither the U.S. nor the IRK able to produce any substantial evidence that can corroborate their allegations thus far, it's become an international case of 'he said, she said.'"_

"_But Laura,"_ the radio host interrupts briefly, _"If the accusations have no basis in fact, why would President Taylor have taken the drastic steps of not only halting the peace accord she's worked so diligently to achieve but also go so far as to resign her office? Not to mention claiming involvement in a conspiracy?"_

"_Well David,"_ the reporter replies, _"that is precisely what the U.S. Attorney General and the United Nations have been trying to sort out. Neither seems willing to divulge much more information at this point, but according to at least one source here at the UN, if no proof arises, then the accusations against the Russians may be too tenuous to necessitate the Security Council's involvement. President Taylor's self-declared involvement in any stated cover-up will seem questionable as well, which may leave her in somewhat of a political and legal limbo._

"_Continuing to add to the mess is President Suvarov's allegation that the murders of a Russian diplomat, his attaché and an entire security team by an American intelligence agent were acts sanctioned by the U.S. government in an attempt to make their false accusations appear more valid. Though it should be noted, David, that while the deaths of Mikhail Novakovich, Pavel Tokarev and several members of Novakovich's security team have already been confirmed, the Russians too, have been unable to substantiate their claims of government involvement."_

Jack listens as the reporter goes on to point out that the overall situation has continued to spark protests steeped in anti-American and anti-Western sentiment in various locations across the planet, with dangerous riots resulting in a few of the more unstable and predictable areas.

"_In the meantime," _she concludes a moment later, "_while the UN and the three governments involved continue to hash it out, the world continues to closely watch what is shaping up to be a bloody political soap opera at best and a global nightmare at worst."_

With that, she returns commentary to the newscaster in the booth, who proceeds to update listeners on the remaining related news highlights.

Jack is not surprised to learn that Congress is threatening investigative hearings and the DOJ is considering possible charges of, among other things, Conspiracy, Obstruction of Justice and Aiding and Abetting Terrorism After the Fact against President Taylor.

He_ is_ surprised to learn that former President Charles Logan is somewhere in an ICU, alive but comatose. Less surprising is that his condition is the result of a self-inflicted gunshot to the head. While further details appear unavailable and his official prognosis is still unclear, according to the radio report, sources claim he probably won't be much more than a vegetable for the remainder of his days.

Jack feels no sympathy for the man. In fact, he can't think of a more deserving person to suffer that fate and he silently wishes him a long, long life.

On the other hand, he is disheartened to learn that Secretary of State Ethan Kanin has unexpectedly passed away in the midst of the political turmoil. From the report, he learns that Kanin had resigned his office in the hours prior to his death after suffering some sort of cardiac incident and that in the hours after Taylor's press conference, he succumbed to a major heart attack.

"_Funeral plans are still ongoing_," the newscaster states somberly, "_but it is expected to be an affair worthy of a man who has served several administrations with what political colleagues on both sides of the aisle are calling 'a rare blend of political acumen, unwavering integrity and dignity…'"_

Jack can't help but feel saddened. Just as he had liked and respected President Taylor, he liked and respected Ethan Kanin. He has no doubt that the moves the president made in the latter part of that day were not endorsed by him and he can't help but wonder if there's more to the story.

As the newscaster moves on to other topics, Jack tries to shake the deep sense of unease that began developing near the top of the broadcast.

He can't understand why there's still doubt about the Russians' involvement in Hassan's murder and the attempted dirty bomb attack.

While he'd known Taylor and Logan would do their best to prevent it, he'd hoped Meredith Reed had the chance to get the story out before they got to her. Evidently, that hadn't happened.

He'd also known Pillar had been in the process of locking Chloe down when the ambulance had taken him away. They must have managed to confiscate his data card from her, too.

But even if Logan and Taylor managed to stop them from distributing the evidence, the president still has all the evidence she needs to back her up. The recording on his data card alone leaves no room for misinterpretation and Walsh's video just provides further confirmation of it all. With the steps Taylor's taken since he last spoke with her, he can't imagine she'd have reason to further delay or stop their release. He can understand that the process of verifying their authenticity would take a little time but it should all still be out in the open by now.

_And yet, obviously…_ he thinks to himself, his frown deepening, _it's not._

"Dammit," he mutters under his breath.

"I know!" Edwin exclaims from nearby. Throughout the news report, the man had remained just as quiet as he had, but now he starts to make comments. "I can't believe it either! And it's like they said…"

Jack only half-hears Edwin as he goes on. He needs answers and glitchy, unreliable radio segments aren't likely to provide them.

"Is there internet access on board?" he asks, interrupting Edwin's rant on the situation, "Or a TV?"

"This isn't a cruise ship, John," Edwin points out with a shake of his head, "On the newer vessels it's more easily available, but _The Ophelia's_ an old girl. The only internet access is on the bridge. The skipper lets us use it for emails home, of course, but you know we're not the only ones who'll be wanting to spend time checking the news sites and there's no way he'll let us all up there for that. I'm afraid if you're looking to surf the 'net, you'll probably have to wait until we reach our next port for that luxury."

Edwin moves the radio from its spot on the counter over to his desk and attempts to find another news station.

"I have a small TV in my cabin for watching DVDs," the man goes on, "And there's another in the lounge for movies. But we don't usually get station reception unless we're in a port and even then it's a crapshoot. So if you want to follow what's happening, radio's our best bet."

Jack turns his gaze back to the ceiling and sighs tiredly. Gaining access to the bridge isn't likely to happen without drawing more attention to himself than he'd like. That leaves Jim's laptop and the sat phone. It won't provide the most ideal internet connection but it may at least enable him to access more information.

"Sounds like one helluva mess," he hears Edwin mumble now.

Jack closes his eyes, grateful that there is only darkness that greets him. _You have no idea,_ he answers silently.


	10. Chapter 10

Thanks to those still reading and to those kind enough to drop a review, I appreciate your time and thoughts! Extra-special thanks to Roadrunnerz for checking this over for me. You're the best!

Enjoy...

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 2 <strong>_

_**06:22 pm**_

_**New York City**_

Once again, it's pain – a burning and throbbing throughout her torso along with a fierce ache in her head – that begins to draw Renee out of the nothingness. Unlike last time, however, as she begins to re-establish the connections to her body, the questions stirring in her brain are enough to keep her from retreating back into it.

There are questions about the pain that seems to be holding her hostage and the darkness that is so reluctant to let her go; about why she feels cold; about the soft beeping and its steady hypnotic rhythm; and about the itching in her nose so intent on annoying her.

And then there are the voices, distorted and ghostlike, that seem so close.

Instinctively, she tries to open her eyes to search them out only to find it's as though her eyelids are glued shut.

A vague sensation of déjà vu comes over her. She's been in this situation before, hasn't she?

Unable to recall for certain, she tries her eyes again. Then again. With each attempt, she encounters the heavy resistance of her eyelids until at last, just as she is ready to concede defeat, she feels them give way – just enough to let a shock of light in through their slits that forces them closed again.

She tries to search her brain for a memory that might explain what the hell is going on. It feels like hours pass before something comes to her:

_She was tired. So deeply tired. She was curled up in a corner on her sofa, her dinner – a slice of two day old pizza – sat untouched on the coffee table in front of her. Right next to the employment section of the newspaper that caused her to lose what meager appetite she might've had._

_On the television across the dimly-lit room, the evening news had, at some point, transitioned to some ridiculously inane "reality" show. She wasn't watching it, of course. Or listening, for that matter. Her attention was more on slowly picking the non-existent lint off of the light blanket draped over her legs. It was another habit she's fallen into over the last several months and the blanket was now almost thread bare in places._

_At some point, her eyes flickered to the TV screen just long enough to catch a familiar graphic alerting viewers that programming was being interrupted. Another update on the peace conference, she'd thought dully as she picked at the blanket. They'd been breaking into regular programming most of the day. Sure enough, a moment later, a news anchor's face filled the screen, the UN seal visible over his shoulder._

_And then her phone was ringing. _

_Again._

_She reached down between the cushions of the sofa to retrieve it from where she'd shoved it just a moment before and she glanced at the caller-ID. It was the same number as the last two times she'd ignored it. She didn't recognize it but whoever it was obviously wasn't taking the hint because each time the phone fell silent, no more than half a minute would pass before it would start ringing again. _

_She sighed in disgust, wishing she'd had the presence of mind to shut the damned ringer off after the first call. Or the third. _

_But then, that was part of the problem, wasn't it? Her presence of mind – or lack thereof, as she'd been told. _

_Repeatedly._

_She gave up and picked up the call._

"_What do you want?" she demanded angrily._

And that is the extent of it.

She tries to remember more, tries to concentrate on who called or what the call was about, but there is nothing beyond that. The memory doesn't clarify _anything_.

She attempts to pry her eyes open again. This time, she's relieved to find that it doesn't require nearly the exertion it did before. Nor is the light that greets her as painful.

As her eyes adjust, she blinks several times to clear her blurry vision and tries to find something in the fuzzy mass before her to focus on. It seems like forever before she begins to recognize that the mass has some sort of structure to it. She blinks hard again, hoping to bring it into something sharper and more definable. Finally, she's able to differentiate the end of a bed from the unfamiliar and mutely-colored curtain covering part of the equally unfamiliar wall just beyond it.

_Where the…?_

She doesn't finish the thought, the slightly deeper breath she'd just unconsciously started to draw stretching her muscles too far and escalating the burning and throbbing in her abdomen. Grimacing, she groans softly and closes her eyes against the pain.

It's then that she hears a man nearby saying her name.

"Renee?"

Her reply is out of her painfully dry mouth before she even thinks about it. "Larry?" she whispers, her voice sounding rough and almost unrecognizable to her own ears.

The silence that follows prompts her to open her eyes and search him out.

"Renee…" he says now, "Renee, it's Cole."

Renee shifts her eyes toward the direction the voice came from to find a man – slim, with dark hair and a look of overt concern draping his features – coming into her line of sight. She doesn't recognize him but he seems to know her.

"How do you feel?"

_Cole… Cole… _

Still wincing from the pain, Renee presses her eyes closed and tries to place him. Before she can, another voice sounds in the room.

"Renee?"

She knows _that_ voice. Sure enough, when she opens her eyes again, the small and familiar woman with long dark hair and dark-rimmed glasses is standing next to the man who just called himself 'Cole.'

_Janis._

Bracing herself for the pain she intuitively knows will follow, Renee draws a deeper breath before trying to say something to her – only to find the breath triggers a cough. The cough extends into others and in a flash, the pain in her abdomen and chest explodes. She cries out, her right hand grabbing at her stomach.

"It's okay, Renee," Janis says quickly, covering Renee's right hand with her own, lightly squeezing it before turning to the man next to her. "Go get help."

The need to cough lingers for another long moment but finally, it begins to pass; the pain in her torso doesn't however, and not only has her headache suddenly gotten worse, the coughing episode has revealed a new, sharp pain in the right side of her chest that comes with each, shaky and tentative breath.

She clenches her eyes shut, forcing out the tears that have risen as a result of the pain, feeling them tickle her temple as they slide into her hair.

Coughing – _breathing_ – has never hurt like this before. Not even with broken ribs.

"Renee…" The worry in Janis' tone is unmistakable. "Renee, you're okay. Just try to relax."

Renee does her best to do that – relax – but she knows Janis is wrong. She isn't okay. The pain in her abdomen and chest is ridiculously intense and her head is pounding; her throat is dry and sore; she's uncomfortably cold. And Janis herself sent 'Cole' to get help. How the hell can she be okay?

Now the itching in her nose is back and she pulls her hand from Janis' gentle grip. Her arm is heavy and clumsy in its response but finally, her fingers encounter something firm along her cheek and near her nose. She pulls at it, relieved when the itch immediately goes away.

_What the hell? _

She opens her eyes to look at the clear plastic tube in her hand. Oxygen tubing. At the same moment, she registers the thin plastic bracelet around her wrist and a tenderness in the bend of her elbow. She straightens her arm enough to glance at her inner elbow, seeing the IV catheter taped down there; when she reaches for it with her left hand, she finds a splint of some sort encasing her hand and wrist.

It's these discoveries that finally lead her to the realization that she's in a hospital.

Slowly, she tilts her head toward Janis, feeling an odd tenderness in the side of her stiff neck as she does it.

"Janis," she tries, her voice cracking, still sounding more foreign to her ears than it should, "What happened?"

Janis gently takes her hand and squeezes it again. "You were shot, Renee," she answers softly, sneaking the oxygen tubing back into place, "You're in the hospital."

In spite of Renee's attempt to keep them open and trained on Janis, her eyes fall shut again. She was shot. Something about that makes sense to her and yet for the life of her, she can't remember it happening.

She doesn't get a chance to ask anything more however, because in the next instant, there is a doctor at her side posing questions of his own.

* * *

><p>Giving Dr. Higgins space to examine Renee, Janis steps over to a corner of the room and pulls out her cell. Even as she places the call, she keeps an eye on the situation nearby. The doctor had left the room only moments before Renee woke up, having just been in to check on her. Now, he's back, asking questions and flashing a light in her eyes.<p>

The moment she hears Chloe's voice in her ear, she turns toward the window.

"She's awake," she says quietly, feeling Renee's heavy-lidded and glassy blue-green eyes on her.

"_I know. I just got off with Cole. How is she?"_

Janis' attention drifts back to Renee. As the doctor continues asking questions, Janis starts to feel uneasy. Renee seems to be having trouble coming up with the right answers. Though she's correctly given her name and that of the president – or the newly _former_-president – she is way off on the date. And she thinks she's back in D.C.

She doesn't miss Renee's confusion when the doctor corrects her.

"_Janis?"_ Chloe prompts impatiently, just as the doctor bends to listen to Renee's chest. He has her take a deep breath and Renee immediately starts coughing, triggering her to cry out in pain again.

"_Janis?"_ Chloe says again, clearly having heard Renee through the phone, _"What's going on?"_

"Sorry…" Janis hesitates. The sharp look of discomfort on Renee's features leads a grimace to find its way on to her own face. "The doctor's examining her now."

"_And?"_

Janis listens as the doctor asks Renee more questions. It quickly becomes clear she's having to search for the answers – answers she should know without even thinking.

Renee meets her eyes just before another deep grimace crosses her face and Janis can tell she is struggling to bite back another groan.

"_Janis! What's wrong?" _

There's a hint of panic in Chloe's voice now and it draws her back into the conversation.

"She's…" Janis frowns. "She's awake and talking. But she's in a lot of pain right now."

"_And?"_ Chloe asks again as if sensing there is more to it.

"And I think she's having trouble…" Janis pauses. She wants to say Renee is having trouble thinking but she's not quite sure that's it. "I don't think she remembers what happened. Actually, I think she's having trouble remembering a lot of things right now."

"_What makes you think that?"_

"Hold on…" Janis says, listening as the doctor begins to quietly explain Renee's medical status to her. She can sense that Renee isn't quite getting it.

"_What makes you think that, Janis?"_ she hears Chloe demand again.

Janis turns away from Renee for a moment, irritation and worry temporarily getting the better of her.

"Oh, I don't know," she whispers harshly, "Maybe it's the fact that she just said she works for the FBI and was asking for Larry a moment ago!"

The silence on the other end of the line isn't comforting and she can almost picture Chloe pressing her lips into a deep frown.

"_All right,"_ she hears the other woman grumble finally, _"I'll be there soon."_

Before Janis can respond, Chloe hangs up.

Pocketing her phone, Janis turns back to Renee, watching and waiting while the doctor moves on with his exam. A grimace appears to have permanently settled on Renee's face and she seems to be struggling to keep her eyes open.

As he shifts the sheet to uncover Renee's legs, Janis' fears about the damage done near Renee's spine immediately resurface. She takes her lower lip between her teeth and her dark eyes anxiously dart back and forth between Renee and the doctor as he begins checking her reflexes, sensation and movement.

Her heart sinks when it quickly becomes apparent that Renee is at least partially numb. And though she is able to shift her knees when asked to bend them, it seems to take much longer than it should and the movement is so slight Janis would've probably missed it if she hadn't been staring at them so intently.

Janis draws her brows together, worried. She wants to think that even that little bit of a response is a good sign, but she's no doctor and the man who is isn't giving anything away in his expression or his words.

Moving to the foot of the bed, he runs a metal instrument up the soles of Renee's feet. Next, he instructs her to wiggle her toes. Janis holds her breath but finally, a long moment later, she sees a few of Renee's toes slowly move.

Finally, the doctor covers her legs again and moves back up to the head of the bed.

Janis listens as he begins explaining about swelling near Renee's spine as a result of the bullet and the surgery and how, hopefully, the numbness and weakness will improve as the swelling resolves.

She slowly blows the air from her lungs, wanting to feel some sense of relief at that. And when Renee looks back at her this time, she tries to give her a reassuring smile.

Renee does not smile back and, seeing the questions brewing in her eyes, she is glad that Chloe's on her way.

* * *

><p>Renee shifts her attention from Janis back to the doctor, trying to remember his name. Hilton. No. Higgins.<p>

She thinks.

A tall and thin middle-aged Caucasian with receding dirty blond hair, green eyes and a Midwestern accent, he is talking as he lifts the side of her gown to check the dressing on her abdomen, explaining something about her surgery. She tries to absorb the details of what he's saying but he's talking too fast and her head is still pounding.

She follows his eyes, glancing down to find a long, white rectangular dressing taped down over the space between her navel and her breastbone. It is partially stained with blood and there's a tube of some sort coming out from beneath it. It looks like there's blood in the tubing and she traces the length of it with her eyes – only to find that it disappears beneath the sheet off to her side.

He's still talking to her as he switches his attention to the right side of her chest. Again, she shifts her head and follows his eyes, catching sight of the edge of yet another bandage. She winces as his fingers explore the tender area around it but it isn't until he accidently shifts the tube tunneling under the dressing that she realizes there's one there. The movement of the tube elicits tiny electric jolts of pain in the right side of her chest and suddenly explains the sharp discomfort she's been having in that area since that first coughing spell.

He's still talking and she shuts her eyes, wishing he would slow down so her brain might have a chance to catch up.

At this point, all she's really sure of is that she was shot and that she had to have surgery to remove the bullet – which had, if she understands correctly, ended up near her spine. She thinks he said there was some damage to some arteries and her lung and… and something about her liver. But she also thinks he said all of those problems have been repaired. There had been something a few minutes ago about blood loss and… and something else but really, most of the details seem to have already evaporated from her brain.

Still, she knows a few things for certain.

She knows that her abdomen and chest hurt in a way she's never experienced before and that her head is throbbing as if in an effort to match the intensity of the pain in her torso. Her left wrist is tender in its brace as is the side of her neck where she's discovered another IV line. Her throat is sore. Her hips and legs feel as though they have fallen asleep in some places and in others, they tingle as if just waking up. She's still cold and the lights are too bright. She's also pretty sure she'd kill for a glass of water – not just for the moisture, but to rid herself of the thick taste in her mouth as well.

It occurs to her now, after making that mental list, that maybe she should be feeling much more anxious and alarmed than she actually is. She's too calm. Isn't she? After all, Janis seems more worried and upset than she feels. She tries to think of why that is.

Finally, the doctor seems to be wrapping it up and she opens her eyes to look up at him, finding his sharp, green eyes studying her.

She tries to moisten her lips, succeeding only in the most minimal of ways.

"So what's the bottom line here?" she asks, her voice still just above a coarse whisper.

"The bottom line, Renee, is that you just survived a trauma that by all accounts should've killed you. But…" he pauses to offer her a small smile, "You were incredibly lucky. The fact that your friend brought you in so quickly probably saved your life. That, and the fact that, among other things, the bullet somehow missed causing catastrophic damage to your major blood vessels. Given time and barring any major complications, I'm optimistic about your recovery. And for a while there, that's not something we were at all confident we'd be saying."

Renee frowns. She'd been hoping for an uncomplicated answer, something easy for her to process, but that was _too_ simple.

"And when will the numbness and tingling go away?"

As he explains about the swelling near her spine, she gets the impression that he's already covered this territory with her. Still, the information he is sharing feels new.

"… and the fact that you're able to flex your knees and move your toes – even that little bit – is a good sign. But the neurosurgeon will be a better judge and she'll be in to see you later."

Renee remembers now. His name _is_ Higgins. He had introduced himself as the intensivist on duty and mentioned that he is only one of several physicians involved in her care.

She hopes they don't all talk so fast.

She tries to push her hair off her face, her fingers getting only so far before they encounter a small mass of tangles. The pain even that much movement has elicited in her chest and abdomen stops her from going any further with the motion and she drops her hand to rest on her chest.

She glances at Janis again, finding her still standing in the corner. The woman is nervous and worried and it doesn't make her feel any better.

Switching her attention back to Dr. Higgins, she frowns. "I don't…" She hesitates. "I don't remember how this happened," she admits finally, unable to stop her voice from betraying a hint of the anxiety she's at last beginning to feel, "And my head…"

_Feels like shit_, she finishes silently, letting her eyes fall shut, feeling them sting.

Slowly, she slides her hand down to rest over her upper abdomen and the dressing in place under the gown. She's tired – so _incredibly_ tired. She can feel something, a darkness, threatening to pull her under even as she struggles against it. And the pain is so… irritating. It hurts to breathe. It hurts _not_ to breathe.

"…sustained a minor closed head injury on top of… "

She hears Dr. Higgins talking and tries to concentrate on his words. She only catches a few phrases.

"…traumatic in more ways than one… …concussion… …chance to work itself out… …give it some time…"

That's right, she'd asked a question, hadn't she? No, that isn't quite true. She tries to remember what it was they had been talking about, only to find herself wondering instead what happened to the man called 'Cole.' Had he even been there in the first place? Or had her brain played a trick on her?

She must drift off for a moment because the next thing she knows, she's hearing Dr. Higgins call her name again.

"Renee?"

Reluctantly forcing her eyes open, Renee tries to refocus on the man standing next to her bed. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I've ordered something for the pain but I want to verify that you're not allergic to any medications. According to the file we were sent…"

She stops listening as she tries to think. Allergies… Bee stings, she remembers. Bee stings and grass. But medications?

"No," she breathes at last, "Nothing."

Her attention flickers back to Janis, who has finally gravitated back to the side of her bed; she is still wearing her anxiety on her sleeve.

And now the doctor is talking again – something about sending in ice chips and pain medication and checking in on her later.

Renee slowly shakes her head. As good as the pain medication sounds, as _wonderful_ as it sounds, she can't go there yet. "I need to speak with Agent Gold first."

Dr. Higgins voices his understanding but Renee doesn't miss the 'don't take too long' look he directs at Janis as he turns to leave. Just as he reaches the door, Renee stops him.

"When can I get out of here?"

Dr. Higgins chuckles softly. "Let's try not to get ahead of ourselves here. You just woke up."

With that, he turns and leaves them. The moment the door closes behind him, Renee looks up at Janis.

"Were you talking to Larry?" she asks, her voice_ finally_ starting to sound more like her own.

Janis pulls her brows together and shakes her head. "No, Renee. It wasn't Larry."

The woman says nothing more, merely tucking her dark hair behind her ears and glancing uneasily at the door. Renee frowns tiredly and forces herself to keep her mind focused as best she can.

"Janis…" she starts, blinking slowly, "What the hell is going on? How did I get here?"

"What do you remember?"

With the fatigue and pain already grating on her nerves, she begins to register more of the frustration now. "Clearly, not everything I should. Just… " She closes her eyes, the pain that comes with every breath only adding to her annoyance. "Just tell me, please."

"It was a sniper shot, Renee."

_Sniper?_

Opening her eyes, Renee pulls her brows together and tries to process that. It takes her a moment to consider it and it still doesn't make sense when she's done. "I wasn't… I wasn't wearing a vest?"

"Well, you weren't…" Janis glances at the door again. "I mean, it wasn't…"

Renee exhales, grimacing as the muscles shift. She doesn't like Janis' expression. "Spit it out, Janis."

"It wasn't an op, Renee."

Renee's brow furrows even deeper. She's been shot. How was it_ not_ during an op? "What do you mean?"

"I mean it wasn't an op. So you had no reason to be wearing a vest. You…" Janis draws a deep breath and exhales. "You were with Jack Bauer when it happened."

Renee lowers her gaze at the name.

"Jack Bauer…" she breathes, trying hard to concentrate. The name feels familiar on her tongue.

She raises her right hand to rub at the side of her head. If the headache would just die down, maybe she could think better, faster. As it is, it's another long moment before flashes of vague memories finally come to her.

Arguing with Larry. Striding into a Senate subcommittee hearing. A thick file on her desk, the word 'confidential' emblazoned across the front of it.

She drops her hand, letting it rest on her chest again. God, she's tired.

"You remember Jack," she hears Janis say. "Don't you?"

Closing her eyes, Renee slowly shakes her head, even as another memory crops up.

A handsome, blond-haired, green-eyed man in a suit and tie. Jaded and reluctant. Sitting in her office with disbelief on his face as he studied a grainy photo.

"Jack Bauer…" she repeats to herself, having finally matched the name to a face.

As if sensing that she is trying to work through it, Janis thankfully remains quiet. Slowly, as if travelling through a thick fog, more pieces of the puzzle come.

She remembers Jack Bauer angrily growling at her, his voice coarse and clipped.

"_You can either walk or I can drag you."_

She remembers Jack Bauer's tight grip on her as he spun her around and that same voice, this time tempered with a hint of reassurance, whispering harshly in her ear.

"_Renee, if you trust me, I will get you through this alive."_

She remembers Jack Bauer shoving her to her knees before he shot her in the neck.

She remembers Jack Bauer and… and… Tony Almeida burying her alive – the weight of the soil and the smell of blood and plastic and dirt overwhelming her, inducing a panic she had struggled to control.

She remembers Jack Bauer seizing on the floor of the bullpen…

"Renee?" Janis finally breaks the relative silence of the room, "Do you remember Jack?"

Opening her eyes, Renee winces. Damn, her head hurts. And the lights are still too bright.

What had the doctor said? There was arterial damage? And something happened to her lung... And… And something about fevers…

She pinches the bridge of her nose, wishing her brain didn't feel so sluggish, wishing her mind would stop trying to wander off on its own, wishing the pain would go away. And that someone would dim the damned lights.

"Renee?"

"Just a minute…" she whispers, hoping to satisfy her friend for a few moments longer.

She drops her hand to her side, her eyes flickering from one point to another without really focusing on what they are seeing.

Jack Bauer. They were talking about Jack Bauer.

Yet her next snippets of memories are not of Jack. Not really. She remembers Marika Donoso and the deep sense of failure at being unable to keep her safe. She remembers how, from the beginning, the situation with Marika had struck a chord, unexpectedly taking her back to a time just a few years prior when, while undercover, she'd enlisted the aid of another young girl. She remembers how that girl had also paid the ultimate price.

She recalls swimming for her life. Then running for her life. She recalls Carol Vossler and her child. She remembers Larry suspending her from the FBI.

And she remembers arguing with Larry. About Jack. About Jack's tactics. About _her _tactics.

She remembers Bill Buchanan, dead at Jack's feet; remembers how words in that moment felt inadequate but she felt compelled to say them anyway; and how what she saw in him as he sat there on the floor, destruction and death surrounding him, made her chest ache.

Then Larry was telling her about Jack and the military-grade bio-weapon.

"_...Jack was exposed." _

She remembers now.

Somehow, somewhere along the way, something had changed for her when it came to Jack Bauer. She hadn't really recognized it until that moment in the holding room at FBI headquarters. Nor had she really been able to clearly define it. But she remembers feeling something shift in her chest as she stood there.

Next to Larry.

Then there was Jack, calmly standing in front of her as he said the words...

"_I'm infected… _

…_It's fine."_

She remembers the clenching, almost-painful sensation resonating deep within her as she watched him walking away from her.

It _isn't_ fine, Jack, she had wanted to say. He'd been infected with the prion variant. It was anything _but_ fine.

She remembers the intense worry she'd felt as his condition worsened over the course of the night; how the mounting sense of loss confused her even as she tried to keep it separate from everything else that was happening at the time; and how the inexplicable feeling of protectiveness toward him that began at some point earlier in the day only seemed to grow.

A long moment later, the memory of Tony's betrayal finally starts to surface in her head.

"Was it Tony Almeida?" she asks, shifting her gaze back to Janis.

"That shot you, you mean?"

"Yeah."

Janis shakes her head. "No. That situation was resolved, Renee. Tony Almeida is in prison."

That surprises Renee and she has to replay Janis' words in her head twice in order to fully understand them.

Then she recalls shooting Tony in the shoulder. And his parting rant at Jack as he was taken into custody. And Jack…

Jack was _dying_.

Renee releases another breath from her lungs and, with a soft groan, sinks further into the bed. Her hand instinctively finds her abdomen again and she rests it there in the hope that the light pressure might help her breaths to not be so painful.

With the next memory that surfaces, she finds it difficult to breathe altogether.

She shuts her eyes, feeling the tears sting and linger in them as she tries to swallow past the tightening in her dry and sore throat. It's a long moment before she can bring herself to even form the words.

"Larry's dead," she finally whispers.

"Yeah."

Renee presses her lips together to keep them from trembling even as more memories rise. Memories she wishes had stayed buried.

Alan Wilson sitting in shackles in front of her with an arrogant smirk on his face – a smirk that had so quickly disappeared. The intense anger washing over her just before the cold detachment settled in. Her hands inflicting pain; her skin speckled with blood.

She opens her eyes now but keeps them trained on the white sheet covering the lower half of her body.

"Wilson," she says flatly, "Was it his group? Some sort of… retaliation?"

"No. Renee, look -"

"Janis," Renee cuts her off, her gaze unwavering from the sheet. She's grown tired of this… this guessing game. "It hurts to think. Please. Just -"

She stops, almost flinching as a slew of new memories hits her all at once. There was a complaint lodged by Carol Vossler – something that had been the least of her troubles in the end because she was the subject of an investigation by both the FBI and the Attorney General's office after what she'd done to Tanner and Wilson.

"Renee?"

Not only had she lost Larry, the anchor, friend and confidant who had become the only family she had left, she'd lost – no, she'd_ thrown away_ – the career that had become her life, the career that meant _everything_ to her. The reputation she'd worked so incredibly hard to build and establish had been left in shambles. And, according to the FBI, someone had apparently taken a magnet to her moral compass.

She had been facing the very real prospect of federal prison time – only to ultimately find herself incarcerated in a different kind of confinement altogether, one more… self-imposed.

Now, rather than continue trying to ignore the physical pain, Renee tries to focus on it, hoping it will be enough of a distraction that it will overpower everything else.

She feels Janis gently squeezing her shoulder and she tries to concentrate on that too. Then she focuses on the anxiety in her voice.

"Do you need me to get a nurse?"

Renee's attempt at diversion fails and she can actually see, on the blank canvas of the sheet covering her legs, the looks on her colleagues' faces – her _friends'_ faces – as she was escorted from the FBI building for the last time. She can see the expression on President Taylor's face as she stood across from her in a conference room and sharply reprimanded her.

She recalls the white sterility of the holding cell at the Justice Department. It was cold and empty and the claustrophobic sensation it was built to induce might have unnerved her had she been able to feel anything significant in the time she spent there.

She remembers it now, that absence of feeling. The familiar icy numbness that had once been her companion years before had returned to pull her into its grasp again, taking root at a point during the course of that day that she could never precisely determine; the same numbness that had almost completely enveloped her in those moments after her colleagues finally broke into Wilson's interrogation room.

God, what she wouldn't do to get that back right now, even for a short time.

She tilts her head back and closes her eyes. She can feel the tears rising in her throat again as something begins churning deep within. Something familiar. Something dark.

"Renee?" she hears Janis saying her name again and she can't believe the woman is even talking to her after what she's put her through, "What is it? What's wrong?"

Renee shoves the tears down, swallowing hard and setting her jaw. When she speaks again, even she can recognize the change in her voice. Colder. Deeper. Hardened. "I think I'm ready for those pain meds now."

"Renee… Please, talk to me."

Renee clenches her teeth. "Please, Janis."

She can sense Janis lingering at her side but she still doesn't open her eyes. Finally, a long moment later, she hears the woman sigh and step toward the door.

It's then that Renee opens her eyes – but she doesn't look at Janis. If she had, she'd see the man named 'Cole' standing in the hallway as the curtain slides back and the door is opened. Instead, Renee glances down at her right wrist, shifting it just enough to get a glimpse of the scars now living there.

Questions and answers no longer matter. Neither does the cold or the pain or bright lights.

What matters is that silent darkness, that emptiness that engulfed her just a short time ago and has been pulling at her since she first opened her eyes. It was so much more comfortable a place than this. It was simple and free of complications and other people's demands and expectations. It was free of the failures and mistakes, free of the losses and the judgments.

She misses it. Desperately. And so she closes her eyes once more, intentionally seeking it out, no longer fighting it from taking her away.

She hears the curtain move but she keeps her eyes shut, ignoring the nurse as he or she fiddles with her IV.

"Renee," a feminine and unfamiliar voice says, "I'm giving you some Dilaudid now. You should start feeling some relief very soon."

Renee says nothing. The memories returning in the last few minutes have brought back with them the frosty blend of anger, self-loathing and indifference that has seemed to occupy her soul in some fashion or another for… too long. She knows she should push it away and she tries. But it clings to her as if part of her skin.

A couple of minutes later, she hears the door slide shut as the nurse leaves the room.

"Renee, I…" she hears Janis hesitate and still, there is anxiety and concern in her voice. "I really wish you'd talk to me. Please. Tell me what's going on."

Renee remains silent, wishing to God her brain had just stopped with remembering the file on her desk. Or being shot and buried alive. Or even Marika. She would've taken that. She might've been okay with that.

She feels the fog settling over her now, relaxing her muscles a bit as the narcotic begins to take effect. Any other time, she would probably fight the drugged haze, dreading the lack of control that it can bring with it. But at this moment, under these circumstances, she welcomes it.

And it's now – in the moment just before the oblivion mercifully swallows her again – that the memory that surfaced after she first woke makes a return engagement.

The repeated and insistent phone calls from the number she didn't recognize.

It was CTU.


	11. Chapter 11

Thanks for reading! And thanks to Roadrunnerz for proofreading!

Enjoy...

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 2 <strong>_

_**08:32 pm**_

_**The Ophelia, North Atlantic Ocean**_

Back in his cabin, Jack pops the floor of the locker back into place and closes its door.

Then, stepping back over to the nearest bunk, he retrieves the items he deposited on the lower bed just a moment ago. He stuffs the sat phone, USB cable and laptop into his messenger bag and carefully slides into the denim jacket Jim gave him, making sure his shirt and the jacket cover the Sig Sauer already tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Finally, after taking a moment to catch his breath, he drapes the bag over his right shoulder and heads out the door.

None of the news programs he and Edwin had been able to find this afternoon had given him any new details about the current political situation in the U.S. As with the previous two reports, there had been no mention of his name or of Renee's murder. Nor had there been mention of Meredith Reed, Dana Walsh's video or his data card.

Captain Tucker hadn't been much help when he stopped by the infirmary to check on him, either.

He's been anxious to get to the laptop so he can try to get more information but in the meantime, he spent most of his time in the infirmary considering the situation.

It struck him, as he rested on the exam table, his tired eyes absently searching the ceiling above him, that whether it was Logan or Pillar or President Taylor herself, they must've destroyed both pieces of evidence before Taylor's change of heart.

It was a thought that distressed him. It meant that, in all likelihood, Kim never received his message, which leaves Chloe's account and whatever details the various authorities and the press may supply as the only explanations his daughter will ever hear for why he won't be coming home. That understanding almost led him to immediately head back to his quarters to use the sat phone to call her. But by the time he managed to sit up, logic kicked in and all the reasons he can't make that call stopped him from carrying through with the urge.

He'd also realized that if the evidence has been destroyed, Taylor is in her current predicament because of her own short-sightedness.

While contemplating that, he'd also come to the conclusion that the probability of Congressional hearings and federal charges could actually be a good thing for President Taylor, since going that route may pre-empt any decisive action against her or the U.S. by the UN Security Council for her part in that day's events.

He's no expert but in his head the least drastic move he can see the council undertaking, at least in regard to President Taylor, is the issuing of a formal reprimand. Or, if they decide to hold not just President Taylor but the entire U.S. government accountable for the president's decisions that day – something he thinks is unlikely – they could go so far as to refer the matter to the International Court of Justice.

One of the boldest moves may very well result in the involvement of the International Criminal Court, though Jack doubts Congress and the AG will let it get that far. If it does, it'll open up a whole can of worms he can see them all wanting to avoid.

The U.S.'s relationship with the ICC has been precarious since its formation and though the U.S. is not subject to ICC jurisdiction, they_ are_ subject to the Security Council's recommendations and they will be expected to cooperate. And though the ICC's mandate mostly limits their jurisdiction to transgressions such as crimes against humanity, genocide, acts of aggression and war crimes, he can still see how this particular case may be one that stretches that mandate to its limits.

After all, letting one country's leader go unpunished for purposefully arranging the death of another country's leader would be bad enough. But when that assassination is carried out in a third country and _that_ leader covers it up… Well, letting all of that stand with impunity could be setting a dangerous precedent and he can't imagine the council not wanting to take steps toward a firm ruling on the situation.

Yet depending on how Congress and the Attorney General choose to handle the situation, the case against Taylor at least – even if somehow determined to fall under the ICC's jurisdiction – could be deemed inadmissible in spite of whatever desire the Security Council may have to bring it to resolution themselves.

It's a complicated situation and so much factors into what could eventually happen. Not the least of which is proof.

And when it comes right down to it, it isn't just Taylor that concerns him.

He reaches the nearest set of stairs and, already breathing hard, he glances down. Two flights. That's all he has to manage. Normally, it wouldn't be an issue for him but considering how he's felt every time he's negotiated the same distance between his quarters and the infirmary, he already knows this journey is going to pose more of a problem than it should.

And going down is always the easy part.

Shifting the messenger bag on his shoulder, he grabs onto the railing and starts down the steep stairwell.

By the time he's descended to the main deck, a sweat has broken out on his face, his heart is pounding, his breathing is even more labored and he is gritting his teeth against the pain in his left shoulder and chest. But at least the dizziness isn't nearly as overwhelming anymore.

He'd initially told Tucker that he intended on working in exchange for the passage, but Edwin is right. He's barely able to navigate a couple flights of stairs much less act as a deckhand right now.

When he finally pushes open the heavy steel door and exits the base of the superstructure, he steps out onto the main deck on the starboard side of the ship. The moment the chilly night air hits his face, he finds himself stopping to draw a few deep breaths of it, savoring the salty tang of the fresh ocean air.

Glancing toward the bow, he finds his view nearly completely obstructed by large shipping containers – which are, at least on the starboard side, stacked five and six high in rows that spread from the railing inward with narrow passageways between them. He's sure the port side reflects the same matrix.

Just beyond the edge of the soft, yellow-orange light provided by the superstructure and the dim lights along the shafts of the cranes, he spots a couple of crew members talking at the base of a stack of containers. He squints into the distance and makes out shifting, glowing pinpricks of light that tell him at least two more crew members are lingering and smoking cigarettes further down in the darkness. None of them seems to be at all interested in his arrival on deck.

Shifting his eyes to the stern, he scans the area, finding more stacks of containers, though much fewer in number. He also spots a group of heavy-looking steel drums lashed down to the deck and tethered to the railing nearby. After a quick glance at the night sky, he moves toward the drums, finding just enough space between them that he can slip in among them.

He looks at the nearest barrel. Even if he could manage to climb up onto it, the light of the laptop will likely be visible to anyone passing by or standing watch on the bridge. Glancing down to assess his other option, he finds the deck beneath his feet is noticeably wet.

He crouches down to press his fingertips against the cold deck. Lifting his hand to his nose, he inhales and decides that the cold liquid beneath his boots is just sea water. Gingerly, he sits down in the cramped space, his back toward the railing and resting against a drum, the cold water seeping into his jeans. He pulls the laptop out of the bag. A moment later, using what slivers of light make it through the spaces between the drums, he has the sat phone attached to the laptop and is trying to access to the internet.

He runs a hand through his hair and sighs, waiting for the connection to establish. It takes longer than he'd like and he struggles to stay awake while the minutes pass.

One of the things that's been bothering him since the first radio broadcast is Meredith Reed – or rather, the lack of mention of her in any of the news reports. Even if Logan or Pillar confiscated the evidence from her he can't imagine she'd be staying quiet about the video she saw unless they're still holding her in custody or someone managed to convince her not to come forward. Given that the president needs her to support her claims, he can't think of a reason for Taylor or her people to do that.

The lighting of the screen finally changes, drawing Jack's attention back to it. At last, the connection has been established and the laptop is ready for him to proceed.

He stares at the screen, hesitating. In the back of his mind is the nagging understanding that not only is this no longer his problem, there's not much he can do about it right now even if it was. Or even if he wanted to – which is a question he's not ready to fully explore just yet.

Then he reminds himself that Taylor's future isn't the only one hinging on supplying proof of her claims. Without evidence of his complicity in everything that happened, there's a good chance Suvarov could still get away with it all – and that includes not only Hassan's murder but Renee's as well.

It's that understanding that drives him to finally enter the query.

He stares at the screen and frowns, forced to wait again for the response. He'd forgotten how slow this kind of connection can be and as he waits, he begins to second-guess his decision to do this instead of collapsing into bed the moment Edwin switched out the oxygen tanks and left his cabin.

Tilting his head back to rest against the steel drum behind him, he stifles a yawn with the back of his hand. He is tired. No, not just tired. He's reached the bone-deep, soul-deep weariness of a stage that exists beyond tired, beyond stressed, beyond drained. It flows through him, encases him. And the brief naps he's managed in the infirmary yesterday and today haven't been nearly enough to remove even the top-most layer of fatigue from his body.

He'd slept long enough last night to descend into another dark and devastating dream that had far too much basis in reality; a dream that lasted just long enough to drive him awake in a panic. It had taken a while for his body and mind to finally calm enough to allow him to fall asleep again; once he did, more disturbing dreams came to wake him. The cycle continued throughout the night, leaving him just as drained and exhausted this morning as he'd been when he dropped onto the bed last night.

He shifts his eyes to the stars blanketing the sky above him, taking in their brightness while listening to the sound of the water and breathing in the night air. After a few moments, he can feel a few of the muscles in his body relaxing for the first time since… probably since he fell asleep on his sofa, little Teri at his side.

And then his eyes fall closed for a moment too long. The result is another flittering reminder of why he'd chosen trying the laptop over crawling onto the bottom bunk in his quarters.

They are together again.

She is standing in front of him in Laitanan's garage, insisting that she was fine, adamant that he not pull her out of the operation, her eyes guarded and annoyed but fiercely determined.

Then she is in a corridor at the FBI after he'd stepped off the elevator with Sunny Macer, asking him if he was okay, her expression on the edge of relief, her eyes wide with hope. An instant later, after he told her he'd been infected with the prion virus, he'd seen the disbelief and worry flow into her and… there was something else there, something he wasn't sure in that moment that he wanted to see but would later take comfort in.

He pries his eyes open and sighs.

He discovered years ago that one of the drawbacks of having trained his brain to retain as much detail about things as possible for his work is that it also holds on to details of things he doesn't intend to. Things that bring him pain, things that haunt him, things he'd rather forget. So while a razor-sharp memory has been vital to his job and in countless instances has been the key to his survival, it's also been brutal on his conscience, his sanity and his emotional state.

The memories of Teri that were so painfully vivid in his mind's eye, stuck with him for so long after her death, popping up with unpredictable frequency to remind him, torture him.

Memories of Audrey have lingered, too.

And the nightmares…

Not just about Teri and Audrey but about other things he's seen and done. About China. About things long past but evidently not forgotten no matter how hard he's tried.

…the nightmares have lasted years.

Even when enough time has passed that he thinks they've finally abandoned him, something will happen to start them up again. He wonders if he has the same thing to look forward to with Renee, wonders how long she will haunt him like this.

Deep down, he already knows the answer. Like Teri and Audrey and Curtis and Carl and Ryan and Bill and David Palmer and so many others before her…

_Forever._

He swallows hard, feeling the emotion crowd his throat and his head begin to ache. On a level all too close to the surface, he understands that the sense of guilt and grief will never fade entirely and that the memories will haunt him for the remainder of his life. However long or short that may be.

Blinking slowly, he sighs as he stares at the stars, barely aware of the shiver that passes through him.

He's so tired of it all. Tired of the loss. Tired of the pain. Tired of having his life fall apart after he's fooled himself into thinking he's reached a point where it might actually be okay again. Tired of feeling like he should've – _could've_ – done more for the people he's cared about and lost.

The light from the laptop screen changes in the darkness and he blinks hard. The tears had just been beginning to form.

He shifts his eyes to the screen to see that the front page of the current edition of the _New York Courier_ is at last displayed. Brows knit together, he scrolls down, skimming the main news headlines, knowing he'll be coming back to the articles for details soon enough. He's nearly at the bottom of the page when a headline catches his eye.

_Courier Mourns Reporter_

His gut tightens and before he even glances below the byline he instinctively understands why Meredith Reed hasn't been out there, screaming what she knows to anyone who will listen.

Meredith Reed is dead.

He only needs to skim the first few sentences of the article to confirm it.

From the details in the article, he sees she died yesterday. One day after he gave her the evidence. For a brief moment, he wonders if Logan and Pillar, or even Taylor herself, had her killed to keep her quiet. They'd been willing to do the same to him, after all. But he quickly realizes that by the time she died, Taylor had already come clean.

The rest of the article, written by the editor, Gary Klausner, is mostly a professional biography. If Reed managed to speak with him before she was detained, he made no reference to their conversation. Nor did he address the rumors regarding her romantic connection to Hassan nor any attempt to silence her by President Taylor.

He scrolls back to the top of the page and clicks on the obituaries section, his hand fidgeting impatiently at his side, fingers starting to stiffen a little in the cold. When the page finally loads, he quickly scrolls down the alphabetical list to find Reed's name, wanting to see what, if anything, he can glean from her obituary.

Just as he is about to click on her name, he spots a name a few lines above hers that catches him off guard.

_Pillar, Jason L._

His brows knit together.

_What the hell?_

He clicks on Pillar's name. When the page appears on the screen, Logan's lackey smiles back at him from a crisp black and white professional photo. Scanning the obituary, he discovers that Pillar died the day before Reed, the same day he'd nearly killed him. The obituary doesn't list a cause of death; it merely states that it was unexpected.

As he returns to the previous page, he considers how it might have happened. He knows it could've been a shootout with the authorities as they tried to take him in or it could've been suicide, but he wouldn't be at all surprised if Logan had something to do with it.

When the list of obituaries is back on the screen, he clicks on Meredith Reed's name and a few moments later, with her smiling visage before him, he reads what details her obituary holds.

Though neither the front page article nor the lengthy obituary give a cause of death, the itch at the back of his mind still leads Jack to suspect that it wasn't natural. He backs up to the previous page, intent on returning to the front page articles to see what else he can learn. But when the list of current obituaries is in front of him again, he stops.

There's another name that will be on the list.

He stares at the screen for a long moment, fingers hovering above the keyboard while he works the muscles in his jaw and his gut twists itself into a knot.

After a moment of fighting it, he gives into the need to scroll further down.

And there it is.

His chest aches as he stares at her name.

_Walker, Renee._

He clicks on the name, shivering again as he waits for what feels like an eternity for the page to load.

Chloe. Chloe would be taking care of it. Or maybe, maybe Janis Gold if she even knows about it yet. Or… or perhaps there had been family after all. Maybe, in spite of what she said, Renee had loved ones out there. But as much as he wants it to be true, as much as he wants to believe Renee hadn't been as alone as she seemed to feel she was, his gut tells him otherwise.

When the page in front of him finally changes, he finds that not only is there no picture of her but also that her obituary is less an obituary and more a short blurb.

He can't help but think she deserves so much more.

_Walker, Renee – Age, 36. Private funeral arrangements pending. In lieu of flowers, please send donations to the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial Fund._

The guilt resurfaces to squeeze his throat.

_Thirty-six…_

Yet another detail he hadn't known about her.

He doesn't know why – maybe it was her position at the Bureau or the way she held herself or maybe it was everything he'd seen in her eyes during his all-too-brief time with her – but he hadn't realized she was that young. In fact, he'd never once even wondered about her age.

Now, however, his brain makes connections without his permission.

Two years older than Teri when she died. Two years younger than Audrey when he last saw her. Just a few years older than Kim is now.

Far too young to be gone.

_I am so sorry, Renee,_ he tells her silently, his eyes trained steadily on her name, _You didn't deserve this. You deserved a long life. And a chance to be happy again._

He forces himself to look away just as her name begins to blur in front of him. He stares through a space between the drums at the high white wall of the superstructure as he tries to push it all down again.

Anger, grief, guilt, regret.

Jack works the muscles in his jaw, feeling the weight of the loss even more than before.

He shouldn't have done this. He could've checked the internet tomorrow. Or the day after that, for that matter. Other than satisfying his need for answers, there is no urgency in any of this.

He should've gone to bed the moment he got back to his cabin.

He should've just stuck with the search on Meredith Reed and the current political mess.

With that last intention in mind, he draws a sharp breath through his nose and forces himself to once again lock down the emotion.

When he returns his attention to the laptop, he clicks on the link that will take him back to the front page of the _Courier _so he can read through the articles. Before he can bring it up again, however, he loses the satellite.


	12. Chapter 12

Longest chapter so far, but it felt wrong to spilt it up. Thanks for stopping by to read! And special thanks to RR for... well, being my guinea pig/editor.

Enjoy...

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 2 <strong>_

_**09:07 pm**_

_**St. Andrew's Hospital, New York City**_

In a chair next to Renee Walker's hospital bed, Chloe O'Brian frowns at the text message on her cell.

_When are you coming home?_

Lacking an answer, she clears the screen and slides the phone back into her pocket, ignoring Morris' question for now.

When Cole called to tell her that Renee had woken up a couple of hours ago, she'd been in her office at CTU, skimming the text of Taylor's interviews with the AG.

In spite of what Gwendolyn Harper of Barron, Harper and Lloyd said about the president's statements so far, she'd taken the risk of hacking into Justice to find the transcripts. She needed to see them for herself, not just to make sure the president isn't saying anything that's going to land her back in a FBI holding cell but also because it had occurred to her that she should know exactly what Taylor is telling the AG in case someone starts asking her questions about it. She'd gotten three-quarters of the way through the current file but shut it all down the moment Cole called.

By the time she arrived at the hospital however, Renee was already out again.

With a sigh, Chloe leans back in her chair, crosses her arms and shifts her gaze to the darkness beyond the hospital window.

She's been sitting here for nearly two hours now, waiting for Renee to wake up again. In that time, she's spoken with two doctors; she's placed four calls to CTU for status updates; she's spoken to both Arlo and Cole; she's spoken to Kim for the second time today; and Janis Gold has filled her in on her conversation with Renee.

For the most part, Chloe could tell Janis was relieved. For the most part, so is she – though she'll be a lot more relieved when Renee is back on her feet and a little less vulnerable and she'd be a lot more relieved if she could just find Jack.

Overall, Renee's status seems improved since she last saw her. She's woken up. The doctors say the labs drawn this morning indicate that her kidney function is stabilizing. And in spite of the apparent memory issue, the fact that she appeared able to remember things as Janis spoke with her seems to be a good sign, too.

Still…

There appear to be some residual issues from the bullet ending up near her spine. Her intermittent fever continues to be an issue. And there are things they need to talk about.

Beyond Renee's situation, little has changed since yesterday.

Politically, the transition from one president to another is moving along as smoothly as one would expect under the circumstances – though from what she's seeing of him so far, President Hayworth might prove to be more than a minor annoyance.

As of her most recent conversation with Tim Woods, there have been no leads in the investigation of the evidence stolen from DOJ custody. At one point, before she could stop herself, she'd mumbled that if it was up to her, she'd direct them to start looking at the security problem being an internal one. To her surprise, Woods didn't blow her off or seem offended at the suggestion. Instead, he asked for her to explain her thinking. Apparently, being an acting director of CTU means people listen to you and value your input without giving you a bucket-load of grief. She's pretty sure she could get used to that.

The Arkansas DOC has finally gotten back to her team, informing them that Prady had come to see Dana regarding an old contact of hers, Kevin Wade – a former felon and, according to the DOC files, her ex-boyfriend and partner in crime. Mr. Wade had apparently gone missing and somehow, Prady tracked Dana down in spite of her name change. With that information finally in hand, her team has been working the connections and she expects their report soon.

The FBI is still hard at work trying to find Jack while at the same time finding ways to add to her stress. They've had two agents at CTU much of yesterday afternoon and all day today, sifting through what files, reports and aerial footage CTU compiled in the aftermath of Hassan's death – as if CTU's not giving their all in looking for Jack themselves.

She'd wanted to argue against their presence the moment SAC Jackson's request came down through Division. She'd wanted to tell Division that either they wanted her in charge or they didn't and if they did, they'd get the FBI out of there. She'd wanted to tell the FBI agents to go to hell the moment they entered her office.

Before she could do any of that, however, she recognized the fine line she was dealing with. If she refused the request, it could look like CTU's hiding something, giving them reason to look even more closely at things.

So instead of showing the FBI agents the door or barring them from the premises, she's been giving them CTU's full cooperation. Better to let them do their thing and find nothing – or rather, _hope_ they find nothing, _hope _she and Arlo have been thorough enough when they had erased certain files – while keeping Gwendolyn Harper's number at her fingertips.

With the anti-American sentiment once again on display by a number of factions in other countries, CTU has been as swamped as ever. She doesn't imagine that's going to change for the better in the foreseeable future – which makes her wish all the more that the FBI would leave them all alone so they can do their jobs.

As for Kim, each time she's spoken to her, she's been armed with new questions and fears. Though her stance on permanent relocation and new identities hasn't wavered, at least her questions no longer pertain solely to whether or not Chloe has heard from Jack. Now, she's asking if they'd have a say in where they'd have to move and about how they'd deal with finding Stephen a new residency program. Or if that's even an option.

She's answered her questions the best she can but she can't keep Cole's men in place indefinitely. If she can't change Kim's mind about relocation soon, she's going to have to find an alternative – which is something she might also have to do for Renee, depending on how long before the decisions come down about Cole and how long before Renee is transferred into Witness Protection.

Her gaze drifts from the window back to Renee and she studies her with cautious and uncertain eyes. She looks a little… better… than yesterday, she guesses. Maybe. But as she watches her now, she also picks up on the fact that there's a tension in her that wasn't there a few minutes ago. That, and a faint grimace has spread on her face. While she has yet to open her eyes, Chloe suspects that she's awake now.

Her frown deepens as one of Janis' comments comes back to her.

"_It was like someone threw a switch, Chloe_," she'd said of those minutes before the nurse had given Renee pain medication_. "She was just… different."_

That observation had not surprised Chloe; she'd noticed the change in Renee almost immediately after greeting her on the helipad at CTU. She imagines that as she remembered things while talking to Janis, it led her back down the same road she'd basically been on before all this happened.

She isn't sure how to handle the situation and not for the first time, she feels a stab of anxiety at the conversation they need to have.

It's not that Renee Walker intimidates her – well maybe, on some level, she does a little; in the same way Jack did in the beginning; in the same way he still could sometimes, right up until the end. It's more that she's unsure how she's going to react to everything she has to tell her.

Actually, that's not quite the truth.

She knows Renee cares about Jack. She expects anger from her, rage even. Directed at Taylor. At Suvarov. At Logan. Maybe even at Jack himself.

She knows there will also be a good chunk of it directed at her, too.

Chloe supposes that will be easier to handle than weeping and sobbing, which are the other potential responses she's not looking forward to.

In any case, she knows that Renee's wheels have to be spinning right now. If anyone understands the need to have a moment to process things, it's Chloe; but there's only so much time she can give Renee. There's a _lot_ they need to discuss and she needs to go home to her family soon.

* * *

><p>"<em>Renee…"<em>

It's the parting of a dream that finally rouses Renee from the sleep she has been so comfortably immersed in. As the tendrils of it begin to slip away, she keeps her eyes closed and tries to hold onto it. When her brain snubs her effort, she replays what she remembers of the last few moments, concentrating on what details she can recall, desperately looking for a way back in.

She had been standing at the edge of a lake, its smooth and placid water stretched far out into the distance before her. Her long hair hung loosely at her shoulders and she was dressed comfortably in a deep emerald-green tank top and dark, slim-fitting jeans. She was barefoot as she stood at the water's edge with her hands in her pockets.

There were mountains surrounding the lake, their peaks still clinging to the last remnants of snow, and the sun was high and bright and warm on her skin. The air smelled of pine trees and wildflowers and a cool, gentle breeze drifted over her.

Baxter, her trusty old German shepherd, her best friend for the better part of her childhood, barked happily nearby. It didn't matter that Baxter died when she was fifteen. What mattered was that he was with her again, nudging her foot and ankle with his cold, wet nose. She had reached down to scratch between his ears then watched as he went off to test the water a few feet away, his tail wagging. She dipped her toes into the water as well, savoring the contrasting cold and wet sensation against her warm, dry skin.

And that's when she felt a presence behind her.

Baxter did not bark in warning. Nor did the presence alarm her. Instead, she merely smiled and closed her eyes. She recognized the strength in the firm and warm body that pressed against her back. She trusted the arms that snuck around her waist and held her tightly.

She covered his hands with her own as he breathed her name in her ear. A whispered voice that was rough yet tender and full of affection and promise.

"_Renee…"_

She'd felt the softness of his lips brushing the skin of her shoulder then. And in that moment she felt safe and happy and content. She felt… at peace.

She'd wanted to stay there forever. In that place. In that moment. With him.

But that was when the dream evaporated.

She takes a moment and tries to go back even further, hoping to find a way to get back into it but the other pieces of her dreams that she can recall – climbing out of a basement window while being chased by someone she couldn't see, a box cutter being held to her cheek while the scent of scotch lingered in the air, running through an alley after a dog, and working a case for the FBI that she never actually worked – have nothing at all to do with it.

So she goes back to the lake, pictures Baxter at her side and tries once more.

Again, her brain again refuses the refuge. Instead, she finally registers the sounds around her and they cruelly reorient her, reminding her of her actual surroundings, triggering an awareness of her current situation.

Just like that, whatever residual contentment that's been lingering from the dream abandons her and the sudden loss of it sparks an ache deep in her chest. Her throat constricts and tears rise to sting her eyes beneath their closed lids.

_Stop it,_ she orders herself, _Just… stop it._

Setting her jaw, she pushes it all away and with her eyes still closed, she does a quick assessment of herself.

Hips and legs, still numb and tingling; mouth, still painfully dry; throat, still rough and sore; oxygen tubing, still irritating her nose. And not only is there an occasional, odd fluttering in her throat that she doesn't recall noticing before but there's also a new, dull ache that seems to have settled deep into her right shoulder.

Thankfully, however, her headache seems to have resolved. And, while every breath continues to drive small currents of electricity into her chest, the burning and throbbing in her torso doesn't feel nearly as overwhelming as it was before.

For the most part, she decides, the pain medication must still be doing its job.

Just as she draws that conclusion, she becomes aware of someone's soft breathing nearby. Recalling that Janis had been with her before the pain meds kicked in, Renee again finds herself wishing she could drift back into that dream. Or, failing that objective, find another dream to slip into.

Ignoring the world would be so much easier, so much more pleasant, than actually dealing with it.

She tries to will herself to sleep but before she can drift off again, threads of thoughts begin to weave together to form a question. That question leads to another and then another. Suddenly, finding the answers is important enough to her that she begins sifting through what she can remember of her conversation with Janis.

In spite of whatever pain medication may still be on board, she seems to be processing her thoughts a little more quickly and easily than before. Yet the answers to her questions continue to elude her, making her wonder just how powerful the drugs they're giving her really are.

_Or maybe it isn't just the meds. The doctor had said something about hitting my head, hadn't he? How hard did I hit it that I can't remember?_

She tries to focus and think through it.

Janis had said she'd been with Jack when she was shot.

_How is that possible? _

Last she knew – last she _allowed_ herself to know – Jack was still recovering from the stem cell transplant. While she… she was still struggling to find a way to make a life out of what she had left.

How had their paths merged? Especially after she'd done her best to keep her path away from his?

_And how the hell did I end up at the bull's-eye end of a sniper shot?_

Searching for answers, she steers her thoughts back to the phone call from CTU. She concentrates on it, trying to remember what it was about. The woman on the other end of the line had introduced herself as Dawn… something.

_No. Dana. Dana something._

And CTU wanted her help with… The answer is there, she can sense it, but before she can grasp it, her mind moves on without her permission.

_Jack. Why was I with Jack? Did he go back to work for CTU? _

She has a hard time believing he'd do that after what she knows that life put him through, after what it cost him.

Again, she can feel the answer lingering somewhere just out of her mental grasp. Before she can reach out any farther, she hears Janis sigh and shift in a chair next to her.

"I know you're awake, Renee…"

_Not Janis… Chloe?_

Renee searches her brain for a long moment, trying to find a reason why Chloe O'Brian would be sitting at her bedside. The only answer that comes is that Chloe is a connection to Jack. That's enough to get her to open her eyes. But instead of looking at Chloe, Renee stares at the foot of the bed.

Her tongue feels swollen with thirst and she licks her lips in search of moisture. She doesn't find it but she tries to get the question out anyway.

"What do you want, Chloe?"

She cringes inwardly, knowing she must have just sounded like a complete bitch.

"If you'd rather be alone… I guess I can leave."

Renee doesn't reply immediately. She doesn't know what she wants right now. Being left alone seems to work for her in general but having a few answers would go a long way toward helping her out, too. Mercifully, before she has to decide, Chloe goes on.

"It's just that… Janis told me you're having trouble remembering what happened. I thought I could help you out with that. I mean, I can tell you… If you want."

At that, Renee finally turns to look at Chloe, her eyes cool, and her jaw still tight. "So tell me."

She had tried to take the edge out of her voice but hadn't quite managed it. Not that it seems to matter because Chloe doesn't seem at all put off by it.

"How much do you remember?"

Renee presses her dry lips together and shifts her gaze to the ceiling. She can't do this again. Not like she did with Janis. The effort is just too taxing, too frustrating.

And yet…

There are too many questions – so many of which seem to center around one person, quite possibly the _only_ person who has even remotely mattered to her in the last year and a half.

Jack. She'd been with Jack. And she'd been shot.

Chloe's here. Jack… isn't.

She presses her eyes closed.

_Oh God._

Rather than answer Chloe's question, she turns back to her and addresses the only issue important to her at the moment.

"Janis said I was with Jack," she says tensely, "Was he shot, too?"

Chloe shakes her head but the sullen expression Renee grew used to seeing on the woman's face all those months ago seems even more dour to her right now.

"No, he… he wasn't hit by the sniper."

Briefly closing her eyes again, Renee feels the relief glide over her. But it isn't enough to relax her.

"Why was I with him?" she demands and still, her words carry a sharpness she wishes she could eliminate. Or at least tone down. "And why was I a target?"

Chloe's frown deepens. "This might go a lot faster if you could just tell me what you remember, Renee," she says impatiently only to pause as if to rethink her tone. A quick moment later, she goes on. "I mean -"

"I know what you mean, Chloe," Renee cuts her off testily.

"Well that's good." The woman hesitates. "Because I don't want to… upset you or anything."

_Right,_ Renee thinks to herself with annoyance, _god forbid we upset the unstable woman with a suicide attempt in her past._

As her eyes linger on Chloe, Renee begins to register how deeply weary she seems. She feels a stab of guilt for being so irritable with her but before she can consider apologizing the door opens. She glances at it to find Janis in the doorway cradling two Styrofoam cups in her hands. She also sees someone in a dark suit and tie holding the curtain open for her and instantly recognizes the badge clipped to his waistband.

Just like that, another question is added to the plethora already sitting in her head.

She doesn't get the chance to ask anything about it, however, before Janis hands one of the cups to Chloe and turns to smile at her.

"Hey Renee," she says, several shades too cheerfully for Renee. "How are you feeling?"

Renee glances at Janis, an uncomfortable mixture of regret, embarrassment and irritation stirring within. Like Chloe, the woman looks tired. And the cheerfulness doesn't completely hide her anxiety.

Trying again, Renee focuses on filtering the harshness from her voice before she opens her mouth.

"Janis," she says, her voice feeling unbelievably flat now.

She looks back at Chloe, desperately needing to get back on topic. Thankfully, Chloe seems to get it.

"You were going to tell me what you remember," Chloe says as Janis takes a seat in the chair on the opposite side of the bed.

Feeling the urge to cough, Renee battles it back, trying to breathe through it as best she can. Then she spots a plastic cup on the bedside table. "Is that water?"

"It's ice," Janis says, automatically reaching for it. "Well, it _was_ ice. Now it's mostly water."

It could be turnip juice and Renee wouldn't care. She just needs something _wet._

"Here…" Janis holds the cup to her lips. "Slowly, okay?"

Renee takes a long swallow, the mostly room-temperature water feeling like heaven as it sits in her mouth. It feels a lot less like heaven as she swallows and the water glides down her sore throat, but she doesn't care. She takes a few more sips then closes her eyes for a moment.

"I remember getting a call from CTU…" she begins quietly, again focusing hard on trying to soften that edge in her voice, "They were asking for my help with something."

And finally, in this moment, it comes to her.

"One of the local Russian crime syndicates, I think."

"Yes," Chloe confirms, "There was an assassin who targeted the president of the IRK. He was here for peace negotiations at the UN."

Renee concentrates on the words, hoping they'll spark a memory. There is nothing. Instead, her brain seems to zero in on something else entirely and she opens her eyes to look at Chloe.

"You're back at CTU."

"Yes," Chloe replies before redirecting her, "Do you know who I'm talking about? President Omar Hassan?"

Drawing a breath, Renee winces and tries again to focus and remember. This time, she is rewarded with the vague sense of a man with thick, dark hair and a goatee.

"Maybe," she shakes her head, "I'm not sure."

Chloe doesn't wait for her to try to figure it out.

"The assassin was killed after the attempt on Hassan failed. We managed to ID him and found indications that he was associated with the local Russian mob. When we contacted the FBI for assistance, they informed us about your undercover history. So we asked you to come in and brief us on what you could. You remember coming in to CTU?"

Renee's actually surprised that when she tries to pull up that memory, it doesn't take much effort. She remembers the helicopter ride, meeting Chloe on the roof of CTU and a large computer screen filled with photos.

"There were three men," she says, "The Russians, I mean. There were three of them, weren't there? And they were… covered with tattoos. I was explaining them to you."

"Yes," Chloe confirms and it's hard not to hear the relief in her voice. For some reason, that helps Renee finally begin to relax a little.

But then another question comes to her. "How long ago was that?"

It's not Chloe but Janis who answers the question.

"That was three days ago, Renee."

Stunned, Renee shifts her attention to Janis. "_Three days_?" she tries to exclaim, only to encounter the uncontrollable need to cough the moment she draws the deep breath.

Having learned from experience, she places a hand over the dressing on her upper abdomen just as the coughing fit really takes hold. She applies a little pressure, hoping to stem the discomfort. Still, the pain in her chest and abdomen flares unbearably and with every cough it feels like her abdomen and chest are going to split open from the inside out. Between that and the ache in her shoulder suddenly sharpening as well, it's all she can do not to cry out.

"Are you okay?" Chloe asks anxiously.

"Do you want me to call for a nurse?" Janis asks, just as the need to cough finally starts to ebb.

As if on cue, the door slides open and a petite blonde woman dressed in hospital scrubs pokes her head into the room. Her long hair is pulled neatly into a ponytail and her blue eyes are bright as they land on Renee.

"You're awake," the woman states with a surprised smile.

"Just in the last few minutes," Janis replies for her, as if in apology for not calling someone to let them know.

"Good. I need to check you over."

Renee watches as the nurse steps into the room, closing the door and the curtain behind her.

"Can it wait?" she asks, trying to infuse some authority into her voice, "I need to talk to them."

"It won't take long," the nurse replies with a small but kind smile.

Renee exhales and sinks into the bed, aggravated by both the pain and the understanding that she doesn't have a say in the interruption. She needs answers not the stream of questions she knows the nurse will have brought with her.

As promised, the exam does not take long, but by the time the nurse – who has introduced herself as Jamie – is done poking and prodding, Renee's entire body is feeling the irritation.

The worst of it is yet another painful series of coughs that erupts while Jamie attempts to listen to her chest. Again, it's enough to bring tears to her eyes and force her hands into fists – a movement that not only feels restricted by the splint on her left wrist but also serves to exacerbate the soreness in it.

The subsequent offer of pain medication seems like heaven but Renee declines for now, worried that it will render her brain useless if it doesn't knock her out entirely. And that's not what she needs right now. Instead, she focuses on trying to breathe more shallowly in an effort to lessen the pain and hopefully stave off any further coughing.

She listens as Jamie quickly tries to explain her status to her but the only thing she really catches is that she's running a low-grade fever and that she still needs the supplemental oxygen. Before she leaves, Jamie glances at Chloe and Janis, giving them a pointed look before meeting Renee's eyes again.

"You need to take it easy," she says, almost protectively, "Your body can't tolerate a lot of additional stress right now."

"Got it," Renee says quietly, watching as Jamie gives Chloe and Janis a final glance, this time one that contains a clear but unspoken warning. Then, she disappears beyond the curtain.

The moment the door slides closed again, Chloe turns back to her. "Renee, if you're not -"

"I said I'm fine," she exhales, her eyes stinging as she temporarily gives in to their demand to shut them. It's been three days since she went in to CTU. And she remembers virtually none of it.

"Okay..." Chloe mumbles and with her eyes closed, Renee misses the exchange of concerned glances between Chloe and Janis, "If you're sure."

"Just…" Feeling her irritability creeping back into the edges of her voice, Renee has to stop herself from snapping at the woman. "Tell me what happened, Chloe."

"Do you remember anything after coming in?"

Her eyes still closed and her brows knit tightly together in concentration and pain, Renee tries to think.

A few flashes of memory seem to cut through the fog: removing a comm device from her ear and dropping it into a dirty sink; a blonde wig on the floor of a closet; running down a dark alley, the sound of gunfire echoing in the night air. Together or separately, none of it makes sense to her.

Finally, she shakes her head. "I don't know," she whispers, the discomfort only now starting to subside to a point where she can breathe without wanting to cry. "Tell me."

And Chloe does, beginning with how CTU discovered that nuclear rods were in play and how Hastings asked her to go back undercover with her old Russian syndicate to help locate and secure them.

Renee opens her eyes. "Jack was there," she says suddenly, cutting off Chloe's explanation, "I… I remember that now."

Actually, what she really remembers is the muted surprise she'd felt when she first heard his soft "hey" and turned to find him standing there. Muted surprise and the realization of how much she'd missed him. Those had been the first remotely pleasant sensations she'd felt in a long time and they caught her just as off guard as his sudden appearance had.

"Yes," Chloe says, "He was the one who killed the assassin and took the video footage…"

Her mind working with the memory, Renee only half-hears Chloe explain how Jack got involved in the situation.

He looked so much better than when she'd last seen him all those months ago. Stronger. Healthier. In fact, he looked like a happier and more relaxed version of the Jack Bauer she pulled out of the senate hearing.

The memory quickly expands.

The small smile that had spread on her lips in those first moments had appeared of its own volition and it had felt so strange to her – nearly as strange as the quick succession of emotions, subdued as they all were, that his unexpected presence stirred up.

In spite of herself, she had been relieved to see him. Relieved and pleased and anxious and guilty and uncertain. And she _had_ missed him. She'd missed the whispery soft sound of his voice, his confident green eyes, his powerful presence and just… him.

But none of that mattered because it all quickly turned into a surprisingly sharp disappointment when he expressed his lack of confidence in her.

Had it been anyone else, it probably wouldn't have fazed her. But it was _Jack_. And for reasons she had tried hard to forget, that had mattered to her.

Much more than she wanted it to.

"_I know what you did."_

Her heart sank at the words. She thought she knew what he was referring to, but realized he either couldn't or wouldn't actually say the words. She was going to force him to do it anyway.

"_Really, Jack? What did I do?"_

"_You nearly killed Wilson during your interrogation…"_

She remembers how the relief slid over her for the second time in a matter of minutes. He didn't know. And if she could manage it, he wouldn't know. Ever.

But then he was gently taking her hand and sliding up her sleeve and his thumb was lightly gliding over the scars at her wrist.

It felt like such a violation and a revelation at the same time.

He _did _know_._ And she wasn't sure which was worse, that he knew or that she'd actually fooled herself into believing that he wouldn't find out.

"…and then he convinced Hastings to let him go undercover with you…" she hears Chloe continuing on.

Renee frowns, knowing what she left unsaid because that memory has floated back as well.

Jack went undercover with her because he didn't believe she could handle it. Because he didn't _trust_ her.

She recalls confronting him with that fact and how he hadn't even bothered denying it. He _didn't_ trust her. And while it hadn't helped bolster what self-confidence she'd managed to dredge up and hold on to at that point, it had pissed her off enough that she was even more determined to prove him wrong.

To prove them all wrong.

"…Ziya Dakhilov, hoping he would lead you to Vladimir Laitanan..."

It's that last name that leads Renee to really tune back in and she briefly closes her eyes – something Chloe apparently doesn't miss.

"Do you remember him?"

"He was the target of an undercover job I worked a few years ago," Renee says simply, without meeting Chloe's gaze.

Of course, there's nothing simple about anything associated with Vladimir, but they don't know that and she has no intention of ever going there again, much less with Chloe or Janis. She dumped all of that garbage out once already – to Larry – and once had been more than enough.

"You were hoping to use him to track down the nuclear rods." Chloe pauses for a moment and Renee shifts her eyes to look at her. "Are you remembering any of this? I mean, is this helping at all?"

"Actually," she says quietly, "it is."

"Okay," Chloe says with a sigh and a quick glance at Janis.

As the woman forges on, Renee remains silent and listens to her account of the operation. She shifts her gaze between Chloe and various points around the room, chunks of memories associated with different aspects of the op sliding back into place.

She easily remembers sawing off Ziya's thumb in order to remove his parole bracelet; the feel of cutting through the flesh and bone had surprised her in its ease. The thumb had dropped to the floor just before Ziya himself had and she remembers the only thought that had passed through her mind at the time was, _'problem solved.'_

She'd looked down at the man on the floor, unconscious and newly-thumbless, with total detachment from what she'd just done. Jack, on the other hand, had been anything but detached.

She remembers the stunned expression on his face when he barged in and found the bloody mess that she'd created. She remembers his anger and shock and the look in his eyes as he finally said the words she hoped to God wouldn't come from him….

"…_Hastings still needs to know the truth!"_

"_The truth?"_

"_That you're unstable!"_

She swallows. How deeply that had stung coming from him. For Jack – _Jack_, of all the people in the world to believe that about her…

_God, why does his opinion have to matter so much?_

To her chagrin, it also doesn't take any effort to remember Vladimir…

How the way he openly studied her in those first few minutes in his garage made her skin crawl and triggered the knot that had been living in her stomach for over a year to grow and tighten. How the devastatingly intense and increasingly familiar sense of failure sank in as she lay stuffed in the trunk of his car, a whimpering, blathering Ziya next to her. How Vlad held a gun to her head and really, all she felt was relief that it was all over, that it was finally coming to an end – even if it was going to be by Vlad's hand, even if Jack was going to be forced to listen to it happen. How he'd been standing in the doorway of the bathroom after she stepped out of the shower, drink in hand, leering at her.

And how the smell and the weight of him had…

Feeling the nausea she felt then stirring in her gut now, she pushes the memories away, shoving them into the darker recesses of her mind where everything else Vlad-related has long been banished to. Then she tries to focus back in on Chloe, concentrating on her voice.

"…Jack and Cole took them out and Jack headed back to the garage where you and Laitanan were waiting. Apparently, Laitanan began making calls to his associates but no one was admitting to knowing anything about the rods."

Chloe hesitates now and as Renee looks back at her, she picks up on a sudden and underlying uneasiness in her. Or maybe it's been there all along and she just hasn't noticed until now. She's not sure.

"From what you and Jack said, you kept pushing Laitanan to keep trying and he didn't like it. He attacked you…"

In that instant, a flash of a glass being thrown against a wall flitters through Renee's mind, quickly followed by the memory of Vlad's hand closing around her throat as he pushed her down on a sofa.

"And then you…" Chloe glances briefly at Janis. "You killed him, Renee."

Renee sharply draws her brows together. "No, I… I don't remember that. I remember…"

She shifts her gaze as she searches for the memory but the last thing she can recall of Vladimir is him talking on the phone while she sat on the arm of his sofa and Jack waited somewhere behind her, his presence a comforting and reassuring contrast to Vlad's.

She shakes her head.

"I remember him making the calls, but I…"

She recalls Jack's tension and his obvious dislike of Vlad and she looks at Chloe again.

"Are you sure_ I_ killed him?"

"We're sure."

_He attacked you…_

The words ring in her mind and Renee slowly shakes her head, trying to find the memory. When it still doesn't come, a sickening thought begins to take form in the back of her mind. She pushes it away, refusing to go there.

A chill passes through her body now, spreading goose bumps along her skin. She's cold again and she pulls the sheet further up on her chest.

"I don't think you really remembered it even after it happened, Renee," Chloe says softly, "I think you were… You were pretty messed up – I mean, kind of out of it for a while after that."

Renee almost smiles. If Chloe thought she was 'pretty messed up' then, she should've seen her sixteen months ago. She's pretty sure there would be no comparing the two. Then again, since she can't seem to remember, what the hell does she know?

"Are you okay?" Chloe asks her now.

"I'm fine, Chloe," she says, briefly closing her eyes, the burning in them undiminished. In truth, she can feel the damned headache returning, setting in as a vague pulsing pressure somewhere beneath her temples. And the pain in her chest and shoulder...

"You're shaking, Renee," Janis points out, suddenly reminding Renee of her presence.

Opening her eyes, Renee looks down at her hands, only now noticing the obvious tremor in them. "I'm… just cold. Do they always keep the air conditioning on high in here?"

"I'll go get a blanket," Janis volunteers quietly.

As Janis rises to her feet and moves to the door, Renee follows her with her eyes. Janis has been mostly silent throughout all of this and Renee has to admit that's only made it easier. That understanding leads her to briefly wonder when she became so much more comfortable talking to Chloe than to Janis. As Janis glances back at her from the doorway, however, the reminder of the 'when' and 'why' is reflected in her dark eyes.

Chloe frowns, uncertain. "Renee, maybe we need to stop for a while. I don't want to push it."

Renee looks back at her, feeling the irritation wash over her again. "I said I'm fine Chloe," she says tightly, "Keep going."

And so Chloe does.

She tells Renee about Hastings placing her under scrutiny for Laitanan's death even while Jack was missing; about Jack agreeing to work with CTU until they could recover the nuclear materials in exchange for Hastings releasing her; about Sergei Bazhaev's involvement in the movement of the nuclear rods; about Hassan's brother's complicity in the assassination attempt, his eventual demise and the American boy who was sent to make certain that he was dead.

As Chloe's explanation unfolds, Renee only dimly recalls Hastings blaming her for the failure of the undercover mission and she has only an indistinct impression of a woman sitting across from her, pressing and harassing her. Both memories feel so fragmented and hazy she'd think they were remnants of a dream if not for Chloe's corroborating explanation.

But she clearly recalls talking to Jack on the phone at some point, telling him that she hadn't asked him to leverage Hastings. She recalls listening to him tell her that she'd done nothing wrong and how just the sound of his voice seemed to calm her. And she remembers listening to him assure her that he meant what he'd said, that he wanted to be with her when it was all over.

_That_ memory sparks another. A vague recollection of herself, sitting in a chair in Vladimir's office, drowning in an all-too-familiar sea of guilt and inadequacy. All while Vlad's bloodied corpse lay on the floor nearby and Jack…

"Oh God," she breathes, her brows arched.

She'd stabbed_ Jack_.

"Renee?"

She doesn't recall actually doing it, but she _knows _she did.

And yet he was still there, kneeling in front of her, trying to toss her a lifeline, trying to pull her out of her own little version of hell.

She closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. The pulsing pressure beneath her temples has swiftly spread to press against her eyes_._

_Why the hell would I have -_

"Renee," Chloe says more insistently.

Renee swallows the emotions down, curling her hands into fists again. "Keep going, Chloe," she grinds out.

As Chloe does as she instructs, Renee's brain latches on to something Jack had said over the phone, that he'd meant what he'd said, that he wanted to be with her.

At some point after showering and changing her clothes at CTU Medical – or maybe it was as she left CTU to go to Jack's apartment, she can't recall for sure, but she remembers thinking how odd it was that with such a simple statement from Jack the feeling of being alone and disconnected from the world around her seemed to recede a little. She also remembers wondering whether Jack was at all aware of the comfort and power his voice and his words wielded.

But as she thinks about it now, she's not sure if she feels better or worse at the thought of it. An admittedly large part of her relishes the _idea_ of being with Jack and she has, admittedly, considered the scenario on more than one occasion in the past eighteen months. But as always, the_ reality_ of things slaps her in the face and the knowledge that she'd only be dragging him down into the dark, cold depths with her reminds her what a bad idea that would be.

After all, Jack would've had no idea what he'd be getting into when he said that. None. Stabbing him might've just been the beginning of the damage she'd do.

And yet… And yet, the idea of being with him still sparks something akin to hope somewhere within her.

Janis returns with a blanket just as Chloe is talking about an EMP and the NSA and losing contact with Jack.

As Janis spreads the blanket over her, Renee silently wishes she'd brought back more than one. This thin material isn't going to do much to quell the chill she's feeling. In fact, she can't remember the last time she felt this cold. She half-expects her teeth to start chattering any moment now. And again, she wishes it didn't hurt so much to breathe. And that her headache had stayed away. And that her shoulder didn't ache so badly.

_I should've at least taken Jamie up on a couple of Tylenol, _she thinks to herself just as she becomes aware of a twitch in her right thigh. She presses her hand against the area and begins to rub, feeling the steady jerking of muscle beneath her fingertips.

Trying her best to move past it all, she focuses on Chloe, who is talking about how she'd called her in to help find Jack.

Renee remembers this without even trying. She had been restlessly pacing the floor of Jack's apartment, desperately trying to figure out how to fix everything she'd so royally screwed up when her cell rang.

She remembers the anxiety and guilt that filled her as she searched for Jack and the heart-pounding fear for him that she felt at hearing the spattering of gunfire that finally led her to him – the same fear that threatened to stop her heart altogether the moment she saw his unmoving body on the ground.

It's now, in _this_ moment, that she wonders when she started to feel _anything_ beyond the apathy, resentment and self-loathing that have alternately kept her company over the last eighteen months of her life.

A heartbeat or two later she realizes the answer. It started the moment she turned and found Jack Bauer standing behind her at CTU.

And now Chloe is telling her about the president asking Jack to head up the effort to safely transport President Hassan and his family to McGuire Air Force Base; about Hassan's decision to surrender himself to the terrorists in order to stop the dirty bomb from being detonated; and about the fact that yet another mole had infiltrated CTU – a mole that "turned out to be a gift from the Russians" and came in the form of Dana Walsh or Jenny Scott "or whatever the hell her real name was."

With most of the events Chloe is relaying, images and memories of varying degrees of clarity return to verify her account and fill in the overall picture for Renee.

She remembers fighting alongside Jack to ensure the safety of President Hassan and his family. There was something about being in the field with him again – something about having his back while innately knowing that the favor was returned, something about the trust that had entailed – that seemed to restore or reawaken something deep within her.

She also recalls escorting Dahlia Hassan and her daughter to the air force base but more than that, she remembers standing in front of the president and how what the woman said in those brief moments seemed to calm something in her that she hadn't realized until that moment _needed_ to be calmed.

Even now, she's not quite sure how to define it all.

And she remembers observing Dana Walsh sitting in a holding cell at CTU.

Still, for the life of her, as hard as she tries, the memory of killing Vladimir refuses to come.

As Chloe continues to describe the hunt for Hassan, Renee finally starts becoming aware of the exhaustion coursing through her. She finds it ironic given that she's done nothing but lay here in bed.

Her fingers continue to rub at the muscle jumping beneath them and, as she draws and releases another deep breath and the sparks of pain travel through her chest and abdomen, she recognizes that the pain is quickly growing stronger again. Still, she tries to ignore it and focus on Chloe.

"…Dana gave us what we needed and you and Jack went there with a team…"

She remembers Jack asking her to be on the assault team even as he voiced his reservations – reservations that even then she could tell were rooted in something other than worry over her ability to handle it.

The furrow in her brow deepens and she stares down at her knees with sudden recognition and understanding.

It hadn't been entirely about a lack of trust or belief in her that led Jack to join her on the undercover mission. Nor was it purely about her ability to handle the operation, though she knows that was there, too. It was also a deeply genuine concern for her well-being and safety.

Just as he'd tried to tell her.

More than once.

"_I'm not concerned about them. I'm concerned about you."_

At the time, she'd taken the words to be Jack Bauer's code for "I have no faith in you."

At the time, she'd just been too defensive and stubborn to listen, _really_ listen to him.

"_Please don't do this…"_

And, in spite of her feelings for him – feelings she'd shoved into a box with the rest of her old life – she had walked away. Because she was that screwed up all she could feel was offended and angry; she was that screwed up that she couldn't recognize what he was trying to communicate.

Shivering, she gives up on trying to massage away the twitching in her thigh and tries to burrow further under the blanket. As she does, she once again becomes aware of the odd fluttering in her throat.

"…and they were streaming a live video feed of him onto the 'net. They were reading…"

Renee closes her burning eyes. She'd swear that the heat in them has intensified in the past few minutes but whether that's true or not, on their dark and fiery screens, she sees the uninvited image of Hassan's bloodied face and the grisly smile carved into his throat.

"Hassan is dead," she says, quietly interrupting Chloe.

"You remember?"

Renee briefly opens her eyes, more memories clicking into place, bringing forth emotions that resonate into her core.

"Jack and I…" she breathes, "We went back to his apartment afterwards."

She bites down on the inside of her lower lip. He was going to keep that promise. He was going to be there.

All she had to do was _let him_.

"Yes."

Closing her eyes again, Renee can actually hear his voice in her head now.

"_Kim named her after her mom…"_

She'd been holding a picture of his granddaughter at the time and God, she'd suddenly felt like an interloper in his life. In that instant, she was reminded just how much he didn't need to deal with her and her fifty tons of tattered baggage.

Jack had a life to get back to. _He_ had a family waiting for him_. He _had people who loved and needed him.

Deep down, the truth of things became clear. She couldn't – _wouldn't_ – hold him to a promise he'd made in the heat of the moment. No matter how much she may have wanted it, it wasn't fair to him.

And so, before she lost the courage to _finally_ do the right thing, she tried to give him a way out.

But then…

But then his hands were suddenly on her face and his lips were soft and hungry against hers and everything – the events of the day, all her failures and her best intentions – _everything_ but herself and Jack in that moment, dissolved away.

And then he was lifting her and they were moving and he was… God, he was _good_.

He_ felt_ good.

And he made her feel…

"Renee?" Janis' voice reverberates oddly in her ears and Renee swallows hard, suddenly reminded that Chloe and Janis sit nearby.

But her mind, her thoughts, are still with Jack.

There was a passion, an intensity, burning with the need in his eyes as he looked into hers that had threatened to possess her.

There was something electric in the way he said her name in the heated space between them, the way his voice changed, questioned, focused, softened, soothed, that seemed to ignite every cell in her body.

There was a tenderness and a reverence in the way he touched her that made her feel…

"Renee?" Chloe's voice echoes now.

And the words he breathlessly whispered in her ear as she rested on top of him afterwards were…

"Renee? Can you hear me?"

And dear God, she was finally,_ finally_…

_Warm._

What she wouldn't give to be that warm right now; to be there with him again and feel that level of…

"Renee," she hears Janis' voice, distorted and distant but insistent. And something squeezes her shoulder. "What's wrong?"

Renee opens her eyes again, finding the room slowly shifting in front of her. God, she wishes she had another blanket. She's freezing. And the pain with every breath has quickly grown unbearable again.

"Jack's phone rang," she manages and though she doesn't really notice, her voice is tremulous and her eyes are brimming with tears. "He… he told me to let it go. But when I… I saw it was you… Chloe… knew it had to be… important. You told me… about Samir... And I told… about the EMT… and… wanted to… Jack… I…"

She shifts her hand to rest on the dressing on her abdomen.

She remembers that at first, it was like someone had knocked the air out of her. It was that same inability to inhale or exhale that she'd experienced enough times from a blow to the gut to know that if she just waited, it would pass.

But it didn't pass.

It wasn't until Jack moved her – lifted her, really – that she could draw a full breath. When she did, the dizziness and the unbelievably sharp, burning and stabbing pain immediately set in. Even then, she doesn't think she realized what had happened until she heard Jack actually saying the words to Chloe.

"Dammit!"

Her ears were ringing and her head hurt as he spoke to her. But the worst of it was in the center of her torso where it felt as if someone had started a bonfire.

And it was still so hard to get air.

And she tasted blood.

She knew it was bad and Jack…

"Renee!"

She can actually see him now. Here. In front of her. She can see the barely-controlled panic in his eyes as he tried to reassure her and God, she'd tried to tell him…

"Renee, it's Jamie…"

"Jack," she whispers.

Everything seems to blur now and for a long moment, Renee has a hard time finding a distinct memory. When she does, it's of him.

There was blood was on his shirt as he cradled her – Were they in a car? Still in his apartment? Where? – and she was having a hard time focusing on his face. She finally locked onto his eyes as he was pleading with her to hang on.

"…_breathe… just breathe..."_

The urgency and distress in his voice as he spoke to her was matched in magnitude by the emotion that was so raw and vivid in his eyes. His eyes… God, in all the hours she'd spent alongside him, arguing or devising strategy or braving gunfire, she had _never_ seen his eyes like that – shaded with fear and dread and desperation.

His face fell out of focus for a moment and she reached for it in an effort to bring it back to her, the need to see it, the need to see his eyes, overpowering.

She wanted to tell him she was trying to hang on; she was trying to breathe. Oh God, how she was trying. There was still so much she needed to say to him.

But she was so tired. And she could feel an iciness creeping into the rest of her body. It was as if the bonfire in her center had sucked all the heat from her hands and feet and had begun working on draining her arms and legs.

"_We're going to make it…"_

She wanted so desperately to tell him… _'Thank you, Jack,'_ …even if it was just a whisper.

She wanted to tell him…

"Renee, don't you do this!"

But she was having too much trouble finding enough air and the pain was excruciating and her eyes wanted to close and the panic was setting in and the edges were blurring and the shadows were creeping in and his voice was echoing and starting to fade…

"…_we're going to make it, I promise…"_

Her eyes are on fire now and Renee finally closes them, the flames smoldering in them even as hot tears escape onto her skin, leaving scorching trails in their wake.

The room spins around her in the darkness and she's still freezing and the fluttering in her throat is nearly constant and the damned muscle in her thigh won't stop twitching and her torso burns and her head is throbbing and the air feels so thin and she can't stop her jaw from shaking... For the love of God, why can't she stop all the shaking?

And all the while, the pain grows more agonizing.

But she can feel his face pressed against hers now. She can feel his hand running over her hair, smoothing it as he tries to soothe her. And his lips are moving against her temple as he talks to her. At first, she can't make out what he's saying and she tries to concentrate on his voice. What she hears in it makes her want to reach out and hold on to him for as long as she can.

"_I've got you…"_

If she can just focus on his voice, it will all be okay. She knows it.

"_I've got you…"_

She just has to focus on his voice.

And then…

"_You're going to be all right…"_

She wants to believe him. She does. But something tells her that this time, Jack Bauer might actually be wrong.

And then…

"… _We're almost there…"_

…then there is nothing.


	13. Chapter 13

As always, huge thanks to those of you reading and taking the time to leave me your feedback. It's very much appreciated! And extra huge thanks to Roadrunnerz for proof reading!

Enjoy...

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 2 <strong>_

_**11:15 pm**_

_**St. Andrew's Hospital, New York City**_

Janis and Chloe had recognized something was wrong at the exact same time.

Renee had just remembered Hassan's murder when she fell silent and her breathing seemed to quicken, not to the point of hyperventilating, but her breaths were definitely faster and shallower than before. The grimace that appeared to be permanently etched on Renee's face since she first woke had noticeably deepened. And not only were her eyes glassy and tear-filled, they were distant – as if her mind had taken her elsewhere.

At the time, Janis thought those reactions were related to whatever Renee was remembering of Hassan's murder or about being at Jack's place or some other related memory. Both she and Chloe had tried to draw her attention, tried to pull her back from wherever she had gone.

For a brief moment, it seemed to work.

But then, as Renee began to talk about Chloe's phone call, her teeth began to chatter and her breathing changed again, becoming almost ragged. Again, she and Chloe watched as Renee's eyes went unfocused.

This time, it was even more apparent that she either wasn't hearing them or couldn't respond to them.

Chloe had run to the door to get help but in that same instant, as if already realizing that something was wrong, the nurse had rushed in. She'd taken one look at Renee and immediately called for help.

As the slew of medical staff descended, the shaking that she and Chloe had noticed before returned, but this time it came with a vengeance, becoming much more violent.

Soon after that, it was as if Renee passed out altogether.

As it was all happening, it had seemed to come about so rapidly; but now, as she anxiously waits for news about Renee's condition, she realizes that the changes weren't as sudden as they seemed. In hindsight, she'd begun noticing the changes earlier; she just hadn't realized the importance of what she was seeing.

Where Renee's face was mostly pale before, for instance, it had become flushed over the course of the conversation with Chloe. Her eyes were glassy long before the tears arrived. And she appeared even more tired than before.

But more than that had been the numbers.

Worried about over doing it, she had been keeping a close eye on the monitors while Chloe and Renee talked.

Early this morning, just after they removed the breathing tube, Renee's heart monitor had shown that her heart rate was in the mid to high 90's. But it had risen gradually throughout the day. When she returned with the coffee, a quick glance at the monitor told her that Renee's heart rate was 115.

At the time, she thought it was just because she was awake and talking, but as the conversation with Chloe progressed, it continued to slowly climb. By the time Janis returned with the blanket, it had crossed the threshold into the low 120's.

The monitor displaying Renee's constant blood pressure readings had registered a change as well, but not nearly as noticeable. There had been a slight dip in the numbers after they stopped the drug that had been helping keep her blood pressure at an acceptable level, but for the most part, it seemed to hold fairly steady throughout the day and even throughout the conversation with Chloe.

It wasn't until moments after the team of medical personnel swooped into the room that Renee's blood pressure plummeted. At that point, alarms were sounding and numbers were flashing on the monitors. The screen displaying her heart rate showed that it was in the 150's and the little odd beats that Janis had noticed from the beginning were coming much more frequently.

While she and Chloe stood together in a corner, watching and listening as the staff worked on Renee, new bags of IV fluids were hung, Renee's incisions and drains were checked and blood was drawn. And the thin oxygen tubing that had been resting at Renee's nose was replaced with a mask that had a small inflated bag connected to it.

The flurry of intensely focused activity caused Janis to flash back in time. Images of Renee, ghostly pale and unconscious on a gurney while doctors and nurses worked frantically to stop the bleeding and save her life, had flittered through her mind's eye.

She felt nauseous as she stood there and she had to push the past from her mind in order to pay attention to the present. The nausea only intensified as she listened to the medical team's hurried exchanges.

Someone thought Renee might be bleeding, that something had been strained too much and that the arterial repair had failed. Someone else thought it was a stress reaction, or shock. And when someone else reported Renee's temperature to be 104.3, a discussion began about something called 'sepsis.'

That's when someone noticed that she and Chloe were still in the room and, in spite of their badges, they were ushered into the corridor before any solid conclusions were made.

She and Chloe have been waiting for word in the large waiting room ever since and, while she can't speak for Chloe, she's having trouble getting past the fear lodged in her throat.

From her seat by the door, she glances across the room at the woman pacing by the series of windows. Spine rigid and her cell to her ear, Chloe looks just as exhausted and anxious as Janis feels.

From what she's been able to tell, Chloe had first called Cole Ortiz, talking to him in hushed tones that made it impossible to hear exactly what she was saying. When she'd finally ended that call, she'd turned around and called CTU, speaking briefly to someone there before placing a call to her husband. She's been talking to him ever since.

In dire need of a distraction of her own to stop her brain from spinning awful scenarios, Janis has debated pulling out her own cell phone to call Gordon Wilcox in D.C. or notify Agent Jackson of the development but she quickly decided there's no real point until she knows more about Renee's condition. And in the end, it would probably only exacerbate her anxiety anyway.

Tilting her head back, Janis closes her eyes and tries to calm herself down but it's only a matter of moments before her brain starts replaying things in her head again.

At one point, early in the conversation and just after Renee had a coughing spell, the nurse had come in and not-so-subtly warned them not to push it.

_I should have stopped things right then and there_, she chastises herself.

Instead, they'd done as Renee asked and pressed on. Now, they're looking at the consequences.

As the minutes pass, she inevitably finds her thoughts drifting back to the last time she sat in a hospital waiting room, anxiously awaiting word on Renee's status.

She wouldn't have thought it was possible, but this wait may be even worse than the last time.

"What do you mean?"

Opening her eyes, Janis finds Chloe finally dropping into the seat across from her. "I'm sorry?"

"You said it might be worse than last time," the woman replies, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest. "What last time?"

Pressing her lips together, Janis tilts her head back and closes her eyes again. She hadn't realized she'd said it out loud. "Never mind. Did you get all your calls made?"

"Yeah."

Even with her eyes closed, Janis can feel the weight of Chloe's scrutinizing gaze. "No news on Jack?" she asks after a long moment.

"None."

Several more moments pass in silence before Janis just can't take the quiet examination anymore. Predictably, when she opens her eyes, she finds Chloe still studying her. "Okay, what?"

"You found her," Chloe says matter-of-factly, "After her suicide attempt, I mean. You were the one who found her, weren't you?"

Janis briefly closes her eyes again. She doesn't have the energy to even try to figure out how Chloe came to that conclusion and before she can attempt to dodge the question, more pieces seem to click into place for Chloe.

"And you told Jack."

Janis sighs and finally meets the woman's eyes. She'd love to have a manual that shows her how Chloe O'Brian's brain works.

"Not immediately, no," she says at last, sitting up in her chair.

She hadn't actually told Jack until Renee had been in the hospital for five days. Even then, it was because _he_ had called _her_.

In spite of the fact that she'd given him Renee's new number almost a week before, he still hadn't been able to reach her. He'd left a couple of messages on her voicemail but he'd gotten no response and he sounded very… worried.

She remembers thinking he must've had some sort of sixth sense that something was really wrong.

She also remembers how his voice changed when she told him about Renee's attempt to end her life.

"I guess I thought…" Janis hesitates, unsure whether she should really be sharing any of this with Chloe. But the only other person she's talked to about it is Jack and it's not been easy keeping it all to herself. "As worried about her as he sounded, I thought he'd want to know. And I thought… I thought maybe he could help her. But from what I understand, she was just as determined to shut him out as she was with me."

"I kept up on what happened after Wilson," Chloe admits softly and Janis thinks she detects a hint of guilt in her tone, "And I'd heard she'd had a hard time after everything, but I never heard anything about a suicide attempt until Jack told me."

"Jack told you about it?" That catches Janis by surprise. He'd struck her as being more discreet than that.

"During the undercover op with Laitanan. He didn't say anything other than that she'd tried but I could tell he was really worried about her." Chloe pauses and shakes her head. "I never would've thought…"

Janis' gaze drops to the floor, her own guilt re-emerging. "Me either. And honestly, I think she resents me for finding her."

Before the conversation can go any further, the door opens and Janis looks up to see one of the doctors finally coming to see them. She instantly recognizes the small, trim Asian woman as Dr. Jiang, one of Renee's physicians.

The doctor takes a seat next to Chloe and over the next few minutes, they listen carefully as she fills them in on Renee's status.

Dr. Jiang starts by reassuring them that for the moment, they've managed to get Renee stabilized. At that, Janis releases the breath she'd been holding since the doctor walked in. But the relief is short-lived as the doctor goes on to explain that everything they're seeing seems to indicate Renee is experiencing a condition called septic shock.

While they're taking measures to bring her fever down, they're also in the midst of trying to discover the source of the infection. They're checking her IVs as well as taking samples of the fluid in her drains and at the moment, Renee is undergoing another chest x-ray as well as a CT scan. If neither of those tests shows anything, they'll be checking her spinal fluid and going from there.

Dr. Jiang explains that while they wait for results from the various tests, they've added another antibiotic to Renee's medication regimen and that they may ultimately call in a specialist to help adjust the antibiotics again based on what they find.

In the meantime, they're having problems with Renee's kidneys again and her lungs and heart appear to be feeling some of the stress as well. In fact, they've had to increase the medication that was helping maintain her blood pressure again and, while it doesn't appear necessary at this point, Dr. Jiang warns them that there may be a need to put her back on a ventilator if her respiratory status deteriorates any further.

When she finishes, Janis and Chloe exchange crestfallen glances. They sit there for a moment, both trying to digest it all.

"Is she going to… be okay?" Chloe finally asks, verbalizing the question Janis has been wanting to know the answer to but hadn't yet managed to bring herself to ask for fear of the answer.

"I won't lie to you," Dr. Jiang says grimly, "It's a very serious complication. And with her condition being what it was before this… Well, the next few hours are critical and will tell us a lot more. But I promise, we're doing everything possible to ensure that she makes it through this crisis."

At that moment, the doctor's pager beeps and she looks down to check it. "I'm sorry," she apologizes as she pushes herself to her feet, "but I need to go."

As Dr. Jiang heads to the door, Janis leans forward to rest her elbows on her knees and drops her forehead into her palm. She stares down at the worn carpet beneath her feet, anxiety coursing through her even more strongly now than just a few minutes ago.

_The next few hours are critical…_

They'd said the same thing after the surgery, when Renee was hovering at the edge of death.

She thought once Renee had woken up that it was over, that she'd survived and they could stop fearing the worst.

Apparently, she'd jumped the gun.

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 2<strong>_

_**11:51 pm**_

_**The Ophelia, North Atlantic Ocean**_

"_Jack, listen…"_

In his apartment once more, Jack turns to face her, the coffee suddenly forgotten as he sees the weary resignation in her eyes.

He is dreaming again. He doesn't want to be. As good as the dream may be, even asleep he knows it isn't going to last.

It never does.

He tries to wake himself.

Yet she is still there, talking. Shaking her head. Letting him off the hook.

She is tired. Sad. Accepting. As beautiful to him in her quiet vulnerability as she is in her fierce determination, she pulls at him.

He knows he should say something to ease her doubts. He knows he should give them both time and space; that they have so much to talk about first. But he needs her to know and understand. He needs her to believe. He needs…

_Her._

Her lips are soft as he presses his against them, her body light as he lifts her. When he lowers her onto the bed, the sadness and resignation in her eyes is gone. When he questions her, she is certain. He questions again, and finds her mouth on his and she is pulling him down on top of her. There is need in her, too.

Jack tosses and turns. He knows what's coming and he tries to keep the dream version of himself from getting out of bed, tries to keep him from leaving her there alone, tries to warn him of the danger lurking beyond the walls of his bedroom. When that doesn't work, he tries to warn _her_.

But before he knows it, she is on the floor. Eyes wide. Her blood is on her chest.

Her blood is on his hands.

Now, however, his subconscious throws in a twist to compound the torment.

As he props her up against his bed, Renee briefly becomes Teri.

It's his wife in his arms on the floor of his bedroom. It's his wife with a bullet in her chest, the blood spreading over her shirt in exactly the same way it had been spreading over the sheet covering Renee. It's his wife whose life is oozing out of her, taking irretrievable chunks of him with her.

Now she is Renee again and she is gasping for air while he desperately tries to save her – to save both of them.

Jack wrestles with the blanket as he searches for something to stop the bleeding.

Suddenly, Audrey is next to him, her hand warm and reassuring on his shoulder as she squeezes gently. Yet when he looks up at her hand, he finds that the scars that once encircled the bones of her delicate wrist now run in achingly familiar lines, extending from her inner wrist toward her forearm. When he glances up at her, her face is ghostly pale and her eyes are distant and without a flicker of recognition. It stabs at him.

Before he can say anything to her however, he hears something dripping behind him and he turns to glance over his shoulder.

A few feet away, in his living room, President Hassan sits in a chair, his eyes open but empty. His throat has been freshly slit and his blood has already made its way down his chest and is trickling to the floor.

Knowing there is nothing he can do for him, he turns back to Renee.

Kim is with him now, handing him a spool of thread. With Renee's – or is it Teri's, he isn't sure anymore – blood drenching his hands, he reaches into the wound and finds the injured artery. Just as he ties it off, another one rips open. He frantically ties artery after artery off; each time he meets with success, another one ruptures.

Somehow, he manages to slice open his own chest. Ignoring his own pain, he digs into his flesh in an effort to put pieces of himself into Renee and Teri and then Renee again. All, in a desperate attempt to repair the damage. He digs and digs and digs…

It's pain that finally brings him out of it.

By the time his eyes open, he's registering that his head is pounding. Worse is the sharp pain in his shoulder. His hand already over the gunshot wound, he discovers that not only is the dressing over the gunshot wound half off but there's fresh blood on both it and his fingertips. In the dream, he'd been digging into his chest; in reality, he'd been digging at the gunshot wound.

With a grimace, he gently presses the gauze and tape back into place before burying his sweat-lined face in the crook of his arm and acknowledging the painful truth: no matter how hard he'd tried, no matter what he would've given to change things, he failed them all.

Teri. Audrey. Hassan. Renee.

_I couldn't keep _any _of them safe._

Even Kim and her family are targets now; targets he can't protect.

His body sinks into the mattress beneath him as defeat mixes with pain and exhaustion. He rests like that for some time, trying to push the ghosts away and swallow what he can of the emotions they've stirred. He doesn't completely manage to succeed at either effort before he shifts his arm off his face and drags his hand across his eyelids to wipe away what tears remain in them. If only he could wipe away so much more than that.

Shoulder still throbbing, Jack pushes himself up off the mattress and sits on the edge of the bed. He rests his elbows on his knees, his gaze sliding from the floor beneath his feet to the locker holding the laptop.

He won't be going back to sleep anytime soon. He knows that. And he considers making another trek to the main deck to try the news sites again. Maybe he'll find some answers. Maybe he'll just find more questions.

Or maybe he won't find anything at all.

Tugging the oxygen out of his nose, he drapes the tubing over the tank and scrubs the growing stubble on his face. Then, rising to his feet, he reaches for the clothes he'd discarded on the bunk bed across from him barely an hour ago.

When he steps out into the corridor a few minutes later, the laptop is still in the locker and the only thoughts in his head are how long he'll be able to wander around the ship before someone stops and asks him what the hell he's doing and whether or not he'll pass out from not enough oxygen before that happens.

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 3<strong>_

_**02:25 am**_

_**Chloe O'Brian's home, New York City**_

When Chloe finally crawls into bed next to Morris, the clock on her nightstand reads 2:25 am.

Thoroughly exhausted, she closes her eyes and tries to relax.

It had been the CT scan that had at last pointed them toward the culprit, showing that an abscess has developed between Renee's diaphragm and liver. There had also been some concern regarding the chest x-ray, which had shown a slight change from the previous one and her doctors felt it indicated that a case of pneumonia was brewing. Ultimately, however, they felt that the root of Renee's major problems at the moment was the collection of infected fluid.

After the doctors discussed the options with her and Janis, it was decided that taking Renee to radiology to have another drain placed in order to remove the fluid would be the best step. If she doesn't show any improvement, then they may have to take her back to surgery and that seems to be something the doctors wish to avoid if they can.

With Janis' consent, they'd done the procedure immediately. In the process, they removed the drain that had already been in place, deciding that it had done the job it was meant to do in the area it was in.

According to Dr. Jiang, it might be two or three days before they know if the measures they are taking are enough. So once again, they are back to waiting.

Chloe stayed until Renee was back in her room; she went in one last time before leaving and felt disheartened.

Renee looked... terrible.

Whatever gains she seemed to have made appeared undone. She was still unconscious and, in spite of the cooling blanket that had been placed over her, the dangerously high fever was persisting. The number of IV bags, both large and small, had seemed to double if not triple and, in spite of the oxygen mask with its inflated bag, her color didn't seem right at all. In fact, while they hadn't had to put her back on the ventilator at that point, Chloe feared that move wasn't far off.

It hadn't helped that the tension among the staff was palpable.

Still, they reassured both her and Janis that, at least in that moment, Renee was holding her own and there wasn't much else to do but wait. After the nurse promised she'd call Janis the moment something changed and after Janis swore she would in turn call her, Chloe left Cole and Janis at Renee's bedside and finally headed home.

Now, as Morris turns in the bed and murmurs something unintelligible while draping his arm over her, Chloe considers checking in with Arlo one more time.

Before she can fully process the thought, however, a restless sleep claims her.


	14. Chapter 14

As always, thanks for reading!

And extra thanks to Roadrunnerz for always being my guinea pig!

Enjoy...

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 4<strong>_

_**05:07**_

_**The Ophelia, North Atlantic Ocean**_

In his cabin aboard _The Ophelia,_ Quentin Tucker wraps a rubber band around a final stack of bills and places it alongside the others on his desk. After checking the amount against his ledger, he gathers up the money, shoves it back into the bank bag nearby and sets both it and the ledger aside.

Though his watch doesn't officially begin for almost an hour, his work as captain of _The Ophelia_ always tends to keep him busy even in his downtime. Awake for over an hour now, he's already been to the bridge to sort through the bulletins that have been posted to his email overnight – company and union information, the current situational warnings, weather alerts and security postings. While he was at it, he took time to address his personal emails. Then, with the entire ship buzzing about the political developments at home, he'd spent a few minutes checking various websites to get the latest information so he can pass it along.

When he was done, he grabbed breakfast and headed back to his cabin to verify the remaining available cash being held in the ship's safe and start the prep for the port of Miami later today.

Now, as he reaches for his coffee and takes a sip of the bitter and increasingly tepid liquid, he turns his attention to the stack of documents waiting for him.

Bypassing the forms he'll need for the various unscheduled drills in the days and weeks ahead, he starts with the port of Miami paperwork, since much of it must be submitted first thing this morning, hours ahead of their arrival. He pulls a copy of the current cargo manifest, adjusts his reading glasses on his nose and quickly verifies the manifest's accuracy before signing it and setting it aside, starting a pile of paperwork he'll need when he starts his shift on the bridge at 0600.

Next, he spots the requisitions for additional food and medical supplies that need his approval. Though they picked up supplies while docked in New York three days ago, Miami will be the last opportunity to acquire fresh food until they pull into Dakar, their first African stop. He quickly glances through the food items and adds his signature, knowing Compass Shipping won't argue the purchases.

Turning to the list of medical supplies the doc has requested, he arches his brows and mutters to himself.

"Hmph."

From what Eddie told him of John West's wounds, he supposes he shouldn't be surprised at the numbers. Still…

Quentin removes his reading glasses and sets them on his desk, paperwork temporarily forgotten as he shifts his gaze to his window. Absently studying the partially illuminated crane outside, he finds himself once again considering the circumstances necessitating the medical supply requisition.

When he'd gotten his latest contract with Compass Shipping, he'd done what he normally does before shipping out; he'd contacted a few old friends, hoping to meet up with them before basically disappearing into the sea for the next four months.

Jim Ricker had been one of those friends.

They'd gotten together for drinks a week before he was due to leave New York, so he'd been surprised to get the call from him three nights ago. He'd been even more surprised when Jim called in a favor – a favor that, while they've helped each other out many times over the years, had gone unaddressed to that point. Which meant the ask was going to be big.

Yet, Quentin had accepted before Jim had a chance to explain. It had been that kind of favor he'd be repaying.

He'd listened carefully as Jim explained he had a friend who'd had some trouble and needed to slip out of the city under the radar. Beyond sharing the fact that his friend might need a little medical attention, Jim hadn't given him any real details. Nor had Quentin pushed for them. He knows Jim well enough to know that he would've told him more if he could have and that he wouldn't even have asked if he had an alternative.

Which isn't to say he hasn't been curious.

Or that he hasn't developed a few suspicions along the way.

Shifting his gaze away from the crane for a moment, Quentin opens a desk drawer and pulls out a cigar. Once he has it lit, he draws a deep breath from it, leans back in his chair and turns back to the crane again, reflecting on the newest addition to _The Ophelia's_ crew.

John West.

He knows that's not the man's real name. He also knows that if West is a friend of Jim's, there's equal chance that he's a decent guy or shady player, former military, government or gun-runner. Or all of the above, for that matter. And given the news reports and security alerts he's seen… Well, the wounds Eddie described to him would certainly fit the scenario he's painted of West's situation in his head. So would the man's need for a quick way out of the city.

He releases another smoky breath, watching as the wispy tendrils extend and curl into the air in front of him before dissipating completely.

When West found him that first night, the man had appeared tired. He was also pale and perspiring. Given that he'd probably had to dodge the increased port security, some of that was to be expected. In fact, how West managed to cut through and get aboard _The Ophelia_ was probably a minor miracle, though again, given that he's a friend of Jim's it hadn't really come as too much of a shock. It had actually been more of a surprise he'd shown up at all, since Jim gave the impression he probably wouldn't.

As for the medical help Jim spoke of, Quentin hadn't picked up on anything extraordinary that first night. The man had been a little shaky and had a small cut or two on his forehead but otherwise, he'd seemed okay enough. He hadn't asked for any help, either. The state Quentin had found him in the next morning on the other hand, had told him that Jim's declaration had been rooted in more than just guesswork or caution.

Quentin rubs his knuckles along his beard.

He'd known when he agreed to help Jim that having John West aboard could be risky. Though he'd been fairly certain Jim wouldn't put him in this situation if the man was a physical threat to him, any doubts he may've had about it were put to rest when he'd met the man. West is no danger to him or his crew. Not in the immediate physical sense, anyway. But, if he's pegged the situation correctly, the fact that the man is even on board _The Ophelia_ is information that could be valuable or costly. Depending on who has that information. Depending on how it's handled.

With that thought in mind, his eyes drift to the locked, two-drawer file cabinet on the floor next to his desk. Among the folders inside are personnel files, one for each individual member of the crew, each file containing copies of the documentation each seaman must provide in order to work aboard _The Ophelia_, including current Z-cards or MMCs, endorsements, passports, port security cards and other credentials.

At some point, he's going to need to figure out what to do with West. And eventually, the man is going to need to get off the boat.

In the meantime, however, Quentin is due back on the bridge shortly and he still has paperwork to finish.

Taking a few more deep breaths off his cigar, he dons his reading glasses and signs the medical supply requisition before setting it in the same pile as the cargo manifest and the food requisition; he'll find a way to explain the numbers if he has to.

Then, lightly trapping his cigar between his teeth, he leans over and pulls the top drawer of the file cabinet open and retrieves John West's file. Flipping it open, he glances through the documents one more time.

Twenty minutes later, when he's completed the remainder of the paperwork, he gathers up the forms, the bank bag and West's personnel file and steps back over to the safe.

* * *

><p><em><strong>09:45 am<strong>_

"… times have changed," Jack hears Edwin saying as he works with Renee's stab wound. "You know how it is. Everyone wants things yesterday."

Though the wound has grown less slightly sensitive, Jack still finds himself gritting his teeth and stifling a groan as he glances up at the man. "Yeah," he manages to breathe.

In the past few minutes, while Edwin has been changing his dressings, the topic of the mostly one-sided conversation has drifted to the job. Though Jack hasn't contributed much more than a word or two, he hasn't minded the distraction – mostly because, in spite of all his efforts, Kim and little Teri and Renee refuse to let him be. Whether he's awake or asleep, they continue to find ways to push their way into his head with a relentlessness he can't seem to completely counter. He's grateful when Edwin presses on.

"We don't get to spend as much time ashore anymore," the man says now, a yearning for days long past edging his voice, "Mostly, you just see the port. Turn around is so quick by the time you stow and unload, it's time to leave. Used to be, and I'm sure this was before your time…"

As Edwin switches his attention to the entrance wound in his shoulder, Jack shifts his heavy, tired eyes back to the pale gray-green wall across from the exam table. This wound has been more tender and sore since his recent and unconscious assault on it in his sleep but if Edwin's noticed that it's more irritated he hasn't said anything. Nor has Jack bothered to mention it. Instead, he bears the pain and tries to keep his focus on Edwin's words.

It seems that he's settling into somewhat of a routine, spending his days recuperating in the ship's infirmary either with Edwin or by himself when Edwin is out fulfilling the engineering-related portion of his duties. Outside of the limited conversation, the dressing changes, vital sign monitoring, IV fluids and antibiotics, they've passed the time primarily by listening to the radio, catching what news they can when reception allows.

He gets the sense that the man's been glad for the company, even as woefully inadequate as said company has been and to Jack's relief, Edwin does most of the talking. In fact, he seems genuinely content to just let him rest.

The nights have been much less kind. He sleeps when he can but when the insomnia sets in or the dreams come, as they invariably do, he's taken to exploring the ship – in spite of the fact that his body doesn't seem to tolerate the absence of the supplemental oxygen nearly long enough for his liking.

He made another trip to the main deck last night, using the laptop to check in on the latest developments in New York and D.C. He's tried to tell himself that he shouldn't care outside of keeping tabs on the situation for his own survival's sake or beyond his basic curiosity, but something in his core won't let it all go. Not that he learned much. In fact, more than once, usually as he's struggling back up stairs, he's wondered if the effort has been worth it.

Apparently, while the UN has officially released statements in which they "strongly condemn the incident," the IRK remains dissatisfied, formally calling on them to launch an in-depth investigation of their leader's murder. Yesterday, as he thought they might, they also began arguing to involve the International Criminal Court claiming Hassan's murder was both an act of aggression and an act of war by the Russians. What's more, they're claiming that Taylor's cover-up and subsequent threats to attack the IRK qualify as acts of aggression as well.

Beyond that, however, the radio news programs and internet sites seem to be regurgitating the same news they've been reporting for the past two days.

Interestingly enough, there's still been no mention of him by name in what information he's found and heard. No photos, either. Apparently, the citywide manhunt that resulted from his escape from Taylor's lockdown and his final encounters with Dana Walsh and Charles Logan doesn't seem to have warranted so much as a mention in any of the major papers. Given all the developments on the political landscape, he supposes he shouldn't be too surprised. The Russians seem to refer to him only as "the American intelligence operative" when speaking about the deaths of their countrymen and with the U.S. denying complicity in those crimes, they're apparently doing their best to keep direct mention of him – as a rogue agent or otherwise – out of the press as well.

"And I don't have to tell you how solitary it can be," Edwin is saying now. "'Course, that's why many of the guys like it…"

While he hasn't been able to determine how Pillar died, in his searching last night he discovered that Meredith Reed's death has officially been deemed a suicide. There have been no details provided in what little he's found but, aside from one sentence in a small follow-up article by Gary Klausner implying he didn't believe it, it seems no one is disputing the determination. His instincts lead him to agree with the editor but without verifiable proof, it doesn't seem likely that official judgment will change. Apparently, the rumors of her personal involvement with the late President Hassan have provided enough reason for people to believe she'd be so affected by his death that she'd take her own life.

In any case, as he's been considering it this morning, it's clear that Taylor's options are dwindling.

With Meredith Reed and Jason Pillar dead, Charles Logan in a coma and the evidence he obtained apparently destroyed or otherwise unusable, Sergei Bazhaev seems to be the last significant and available source that could help prove the Russians' involvement. If the man can be persuaded to testify about what he knows, it may be possible that the president could still actually manage to salvage _something_ from this mess.

Except there has been no mention of Bazhaev in anything he's read or heard so far – not that he expects that they'd be parading him around in the press at this point. Still, Jack makes a mental note to check tonight.

A sharp increase in pain in his shoulder forces Jack to hold back another groan and he looks up at the man next to him to find his dark eyes intently focused on what he's doing.

"… both know the crews are smaller now," Edwin is saying as he presses some gauze into place, "Used to be we'd have at least 30 men crew a ship like _The Ophelia_. Now? Lucky if we can manage twenty-five because of budget cuts – though some companies like Compass do better than others." He pauses to reach for some tape to start taping the dressing down. "You've never worked for Compass Shipping before?"

Jack gives him a slight shake of his head.

"Well, the company treats us good enough. Some of their ships are older than most of us like but the food's better and, as you can see, they make sure we have enough supplies. Who've you worked with before? TransAtlantic? GFSC?"

Jack quickly considers his answer. He's done his best to avoid directly answering questions that have anything to do with how long he's been a merchant mariner and the work he's done in the past. He'd like to continue that.

"Or have you mostly been with the foreign guys?"

"TransAtlantic," he mumbles finally, "And others."

If Edwin is surprised or suspicious, he doesn't show it. Nor does he press him for more details. "Well, it's all basically the same, isn't it?" He shrugs. "Cargo. Containers. None of it really changes no matter who you're working for. Hands down though, Compass is my favorite. Always happy to draw a stint with them."

Edwin steps back from the table with a satisfied smile. "All done," he says, pulling off his gloves, "For the most part, they're looking better."

Jack releases a breath and tries to relax his body. As it has every other time Edwin has changed the dressings, his entire torso feels raw and overly sensitive.

"Thanks," he says, watching as the man moves to wash his hands. He finds himself genuinely curious after the man's commentary. Up until now, he'd gotten the impression Edwin liked his job but from the way he's been talking over the last few minutes…

"I still enjoy it though," Edwin says as if reading Jack's mind, "Being at sea, I mean. It's just… different now. And it's what I know. My father worked the ships out of the Philippines when I was a kid. Kept with it after he brought us to the States. It was the Navy that showed me the love for the water is in my blood."

"And Marcia?" Jack surprises himself by asking.

Edwin chuckles softly as he rinses his hands and reaches for some paper towels to dry his hands. "Four months on ship, three months off? Not exactly easy on a marriage." He tosses the crumpled up paper towels into a nearby trash can. "She's always said she understands but understanding isn't the same as liking it, you know? I could say she knew what she was getting into when she married me but when you're basically raising your kids alone for huge chunks of time… Well, I'm lucky to have her."

Jack frowns, his thoughts shifting to Teri and Kim and all the time with them that his work robbed him of. How many times had the job stood like an insurmountable wall in the arguments between them? How much time had they wasted fighting over it?

_Too much time,_ he acknowledges silently.

"She says she's looking forward to my retirement," the other man continues, smiling as he starts to gather up the unused dressing supplies to put them away, "but I give her six months before she's begging me to go back to the ships."

Jack tries to push a smile onto his face as well. He doesn't quite manage it.

When he's finally done cleaning up, Edwin leans back against the stainless steel counter. "How about you?" he asks, his eyes on Jack even as he removes his glasses to clean the lenses with the bottom of his faded sweatshirt. "Why do you do it?"

Jack returns his attention to the ceiling. "Same reasons you do, I guess," he answers vaguely, searching for a way to change the subject before he's forced into one more lie he could get caught in.

He's saved the trouble when the door creaks open and Quentin Tucker steps into the infirmary. Jack watches as the older, barrel-chested man quietly speaks to Edwin. A moment later, Edwin nods to Jack.

"Gotta take a look at the slewing motor on one of the cranes," he says by way of explanation, "I'll be back later with lunch. I swear, at some point, I'll get you to eat more than a couple of bites."

"Yeah," Jack breathes, unable to recall the last time even the thought of food was at all appealing to him.

As he watches Edwin leave, Jack feels Tucker's sharp blue eyes appraising him. Jack meets his gaze.

"Captain," he acknowledges.

Tucker briefly holds up a hand. "Before you ask," he starts with his rough, gravelly voice, "there's nothing really new in the reports this morning."

Jack presses his lips into a frown at the pre-emptive answer. He's spoken to Tucker more than once in the past couple of days, usually when the captain has come to the infirmary to check on him. Since they first heard the news reports, nearly every encounter with the man has begun by him – or Edwin – asking if there's been any news on the political front. So far, the man has had nothing drastically new to add to what Jack's managed to learn on his own. Today is apparently no different.

"You know Congress," Tucker continues as he approaches the exam table, "It takes them forever to get past their pissing contests to make a decision about anything that doesn't involve giving themselves a raise. And the UN is still sitting on their hands, too. Sounds like things are going to be bogged down in political bullshit as usual."

"The Russians?"

"Seem content to keep denying and diverting," the captain shares with a shrug. "And still pretty vocal about one of our guys taking out a bunch of theirs."

The older man hesitates and for a moment, Jack senses he wants to ask a question. When he opens his mouth to continue however, it's apparent that he's thought better of the urge.

"There _is _a rumor that Taylor may've tried to stifle a reporter at some point," he goes on as if an afterthought, "but they haven't said a lot about it yet, so I don't know any details." He pauses, holding Jack's gaze with scrutinizing eyes. "You know, if it's really important to you, I can arrange some time for you to use the computer on the bridge so you can email home or surf the 'net."

Jack shakes his head, having already weighed and discarded that option for a number of reasons. "No, it's fine," he replies, "Edwin and I are just trying to follow what's going on. It's just… unbelievable."

"That's a polite way to put it," Tucker scoffs and scratches at his beard with his knuckles. "Doc says you're doing a little better. What do_ you_ say?"

Jack looks past the man's graying beard and weathered face and, from his eyes, gets the sense that he has something more important on his mind than how he's feeling. "He's a miracle worker," he says sincerely.

At that Tucker chuckles. "You're not the first to say that," he returns with arched brows and a small smile. He crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes unwavering from Jack's. "He thinks you'll be able to help him out in here soon."

Jack nods, sensing a question in there somewhere. "Looking forward to it."

And he is. It will give him something to do besides lay here and stare at walls and fight the demons in his head.

The captain stands there for another beat but says nothing and again, Jack gets the impression that there is more to this visit than updates and concern for his health. To this point, Tucker has been in and out of the infirmary too quickly for any sort of significant conversation, which suits Jack fine, but this morning, it seems he's in no rush. Jack can't help but wonder why and the question sparks an undercurrent of unease. Not for the first time, he considers how the man might react if he knew the reason he's here in the first place.

He hopes he's not about to find out.

"What's on your mind, Captain?" he asks finally.

Tucker frowns and Jack can sense the questions on the man's tongue but to his relief, they don't come. Or, at least the ones he dreads don't come.

"We're pulling into Miami this evening. Our last American port. Just wondering if you'll be staying on."

Suddenly unsure if he's subtly being asked to leave, Jack shifts his gaze to the window across the room, already knowing that he'll respect that decision if that's what this is.

Yet the plan has been to get out of the country; staying aboard, while taking him farther away from those he loves, is still the best way to accomplish that. Physically, it's his best option, too. Not only does he continue to need the supplemental oxygen, the fevers – though not as high – remain stubbornly persistent, acting as repeat offenders that seem intent on sneaking off with what energy he manages to store. Overall, however, Edwin's plan of action seems to be working. It just needs more time.

_He_ needs more time.

He looks back at the captain and offers a singular nod. "If you're okay with it, yeah, I'd like to stay."

Tucker returns the nod. "Thought you might," he says, the barest hint of a knowing smile lifting the corner of his mouth, "Frankly, no matter what Eddie says, you still look like shit."

He uncrosses his arms and slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Our friend did a good job with your papers so I don't think port inspection will be an issue," he goes on with an almost conspiratorial-like glint in his eyes, "But, if you'd prefer to stay out of their way and unnoticed, I've got a couple of ideas to keep you out of their path…"

* * *

><p><em><strong>09:06 pm<strong>_

Laptop in front of him, Jack tilts his head back to rest against the steel drum behind him.

"Of course," he huffs softly, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly into a fleeting but disappointed half-smirk. He clenches his jaw.

He's just checked to see what information he can find on Sergei Bazhaev and the most recent link sent him to this, the man's obituary.

He can't say he's surprised. For the most part, he can't even say he's sorry.

While the obituary doesn't list the cause of his demise, Jack can guess that no matter how it looked, it wasn't natural. And his death coupled with Meredith Reed's is too much of a coincidence for him to ignore.

By now, Yuri Suvarov has to know that Bazhaev was the one who set him on the path of the Russian government to begin with. Silencing the mobster would not only benefit the Russians by keeping him quiet, it would also send a very clear message to any other mob figure who may have an inclination to come forward and share what they know. Killing Meredith Reed would've been to his advantage, too.

Hell, for all he knows, the Russians could've played a part in Pillar's death, as well.

Jack closes his eyes for a moment. It seems Taylor's options have dwindled in number even more than he thought. Briefly, he considers that Jim Ricker might still have copies of everything Jack gathered, but he quickly realizes that if Jim hadn't destroyed it before Cole and Chloe found him – and he probably had – he sure as hell would've gotten rid of it immediately afterward.

What really matters to him, however – aside from the possibility that Chloe and Cole might also be at risk because of the position he put them in – is that it increases the chances that Suvarov is going to get away with what he's done. It's an understanding that's sparked the intense anger again, bringing thoughts of finishing what he started to the surface again.

More and more, he's tempted to try to contact Chloe. It wouldn't be difficult for him to resort to one of their old methods. To see if she's reached the same conclusion about Reed's and Bazhaev's deaths. To find out what other avenues they're exploring. To see if she was the one to make the funeral plans for Renee – a subject he's deliberately avoided exploring online since first seeing her obituary. And to find out if she managed to get Kim and her family to safety and what the plan to protect them entails.

Reluctantly, he opens his eyes. He knows he can't contact her.

Even with the sat phone, at this point, she has to be under a scrutiny that's making her squirm. He'd be risking too much, for her as well as himself. He's already put her through enough.

Now, instead of attempting to reach out to her, he shuts down the satellite connection, closes the laptop and heads back to his cabin in the hope of falling into a dreamless sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

Apologies for the brevity of this one. The next one will make up for it.

Thanks to roadrunnerz for the edit and thanks to those of you sticking with this story and leaving your thoughts.

Happy 2012!

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 5<strong>_

_**St. Anne's Chapel, New York City**_

_**09:57 am**_

Chloe frowns as she studies the image of Renee in front of her.

Her hair, a lighter and brighter shade of red, is pulled to one side and resting loosely on her shoulder. There's a wide smile brightening her face and shining in her eyes, as if someone just told her a joke. It makes her look so much younger and so much more relaxed than the woman she's more familiar with and the comparison sparks the realization that in the brief time she's known Renee, she can't remember seeing her actually smile much less laugh.

_It looks good on her,_ Chloe decides silently. She'd like the chance to get to know that Renee Walker. If she's still around.

And yet, the candid photo – in its sterling silver frame sitting on a small table flanked by funeral bouquets – makes her uncomfortable.

This whole damned thing makes her uncomfortable.

The picture of a woman who's supposed to be dead but instead remains engaged in a fight to hang on. The strong scent of roses, carnations and lilies permeating the room around her. The music playing softly overhead that makes her wonder if it's meant to console or depress. The small, unfamiliar chapel chosen not for any personal connection to Renee but for strategic reasons. And the sniffling voice somewhere nearby uttering, 'I can't believe she's gone, Janis.'

Chloe sighs and forces her shoulders down. She can do this. It's not the first staged funeral service she's been a part of, after all. Like with Jack's fake funeral years ago, it's not like she's alone in this one, either. Michelle and Tony had been around to help back then. This time, along with Morris for support, she has… Janis.

She exhales again.

_Not quite the same,_ she acknowledges to herself, but at least she isn't having to watch Kim cry over a closed casket.

At that, she suddenly wonders if she'll be expected to cry during the service; the thought just adds to her discomfort and reminds her of the people who will be watching.

Upon last check, the crowd gathering in the chapel behind her was still filing in, the term 'crowd' being an overstatement, of course.

Herself and Morris. Janis and Mr. Hastings. A few members of the CTU teams Renee worked so briefly with – minus Cole, who remains at Renee's bedside keeping watch, and Arlo, who along with one member of the FBI protection team, is monitoring surveillance for the service. Gordon Wilcox and a handful of other FBI agents from the DC office Janis felt would be at a memorial service for Renee no matter what city it was held in.

There is no family in attendance that she's aware of. And aside from herself and Janis, Wilcox and Morris are the only other people in the room aware of the truth about Renee's status.

Her frown deepens as the organ music changes and starts playing another mournful hymn – one that triggers memories of the last time she heard it.

_Bill Buchanan._

His funeral service may have been eighteen months ago but it still rings so fresh in her mind it could've been yesterday.

Even now, she can picture Karen, eyes red and swollen, trying to smile as she graciously shook hands with the seemingly endless line of people offering her their condolences. She can also picture the flag-draped casket as it was carried past her and remembers how the anger she still feels toward Tony was so much sharper and deeper on that day.

Bill Buchanan's service had been held in a church a lot bigger than this chapel. His service had a lot more people in attendance. His service had been painfully, tragically real.

If not for Jack Bauer, a strong woman, a top-notch trauma team and a miracle, this one might've been, too.

_Then again,_ she thinks to herself, her eyes still on the photo of a smiling Renee, _we're not out of the woods yet._

Before she can even reflect on how frighteningly touch-and-go the past two and a half days have been for Renee, she hears Arlo's voice sounding in her ears.

"_Good to go, Chloe."_

Almost simultaneously, she feels the warm weight of a hand on her shoulder. "They're ready to start, love," she hears Morris' voice from behind her.

Chloe draws a deep breath and exhales forcefully. "Right," she mumbles in quiet response to both of them.

Turning to join her husband, she takes a seat in the front row and starts counting the minutes until it's over.

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 5<strong>_

_**09:54 pm**_

_**St. Andrew's hospital, New York City**_

Cole stands at the window in Renee's hospital room, frowning deeply as he slides his cell into his pocket.

He's just spoken with the funeral home, finalizing a couple of last-minute details for Dana's funeral in the morning, or rather, adding in a couple of last-minute requests made by Ruth Scott, the sister of Dana's he found out about only in the past few days as CTU has continued its investigation.

Like their wedding was supposed to be and like the rosary and viewing were earlier tonight, her funeral tomorrow will be a small affair. He doesn't expect many people to show up. Himself and his family; Ruth and her son; maybe a few friends Dana had made; maybe Arlo and Chloe, though he knows that will be more to support him than any great desire to say goodbye to Dana.

He releases a long, slow breath.

He's been struggling with how to deal with the frustrating mix of emotion for days now. Betrayal, hurt, and anger. Sadness, self-reproach, embarrassment and loss. It's all been building since the moment he found out about Dana's duplicity.

It wasn't until last night, when Janis overheard him on the phone with his sister and asked him what had happened, that he'd managed to find at least a little perspective.

After some persuasion, he'd told her the bare bones of the sordid story. In return, she'd shared one of her own experiences with the traitorous deception of a colleague. While she acknowledged that it wasn't quite the same as what happened between him and Dana – she wasn't about to marry either of the two coworkers she vaguely referred to – she'd offered him some guidance, telling him he'd just have to mourn the person he thought she was and leave the rest for everyone else to sort out.

It was sound advice and it's helped him move forward a bit, but there's still so much conflict associated with the situation, not the least of which concerns how she died.

The coroner's office has taken their time processing Dana's body, carefully logging the evidence in case the man responsible for her death is ever found and prosecuted for it. Deep down, he knows that prosecution, in all likelihood, is never going to happen. Even if Chloe – or someone else – manages to track Jack down. He's not sure how he feels about that and at this point, he's been trying not to think about it, which is an easy enough task given how things are progressing on other fronts.

In the hours he's not been here in Renee's hospital room, sleeping in a doctor's call room down the hall or planning Dana's funeral, he's had other things to fill his time.

Two days ago, he met with his lawyer and began the process of preparing to sit down with a representative from the Justice Department for his deposition.

Yesterday evening, when Chloe made her usual stop at the hospital before heading home, he finally told her everything. About Kevin Wade and his friend. About dumping the bodies. About his incomplete statement. And lying to her about Prady.

Overall, she seemed to take it better than he expected – probably because she has so many other things on her plate.

Today, and per Chloe's order, he went in to CTU and revised his official statement. Then, he had his formal interview with the DOJ rep and came clean about everything that's happened.

It's only a matter of waiting now. He anticipates that within the week CTU will let him go and whatever charges the DOJ deems appropriate will officially be filed.

All he can do now is wait and hope for the best.

_That, and bury my fiancé_… he reminds himself, already dreading it. If it's anything like the rosary was tonight…

"Jack?"

The barely audible voice behind him draws his attention and he glances over his shoulder at Renee. Brow furrowed, her eyes are still closed and even though the name has crossed her lips, Cole can't help but wonder if she's even aware of it. She's been hallucinating and having what he can only describe as intense nightmares off and on for much of the last three days.

Just as he decides she's dreaming again, he hears a quiet groan and her muffled voice again. This time, she is more insistent.

"Jack."

"Hey Renee," he says quietly as he moves back over to the bed, "It's Cole."

Renee cracks her eyes open but seems to fight to keep them there as she shifts her eyes in his direction. He can see she's struggling to focus on him.

"I should be dead," she mumbles after a moment, her words barely decipherable between the softness of her voice and the barrier of the oxygen mask.

"Probably," Cole answers with a small, fleeting half-smirk, "But we're really glad you're not. How do you feel?"

He watches as her eyes fall closed again and a grimace settles on her face.

"Horrible," she exhales.

"Yeah, I'm not surprised. You've been really sick for the past few days, Renee. You developed an infection and it caused a lot of problems. But they think they got a handle on it now."

Renee opens her eyes and tries to say something more but stops to cough and though it is weak, she is instantly groaning and grabbing at her chest.

"Hey, I'm calling the nurse, okay?" he says, reaching for the call button, "They can give you something for the pain."

"Water?" Renee whispers.

"All we've got is ice," he says, reaching for a nearby cup. The ice is half-melted but he doesn't tell her that. Ice chips only, they'd said.

Carefully lifting the oxygen mask covering the lower half of her face, he spoons a couple of ice chips into her mouth.

Renee closes her eyes. "Mmm," she groans softly, "Good."

At that, a small smile spreads on Cole's face and he realizes it's the first time he's done that in… days.

"I'll bet," he says, fishing out another spoonful of ice, "Here. Have a few more."

A nurse pops in just as he's replacing the oxygen mask. "You okay in here?"

"She's awake," he explains over his shoulder, "And I think she needs something for the pain."

As the nurse mumbles and acknowledgement and disappears behind the curtain, he finds Renee's eyes on him once more.

"Is Jack here?" she asks, her voice once again sounding muffled.

Cole frowns as he sets the cup of ice back on the nearby bedside table. Chloe had said they hadn't had a chance to tell her about Jack yet and he knows he's probably not the best person to do the honors.

"No," he says quietly and sees that her eyes are already closed again. He reaches for her shoulder, squeezing it lightly. "Rest Renee. Don't fight it. Just rest."

A grimace still on her face, Renee exhales and her shoulders seem to settle deeper into the mattress.

Just when he thinks she's drifted off, she briefly opens her eyes one more time. She reaches up to clumsily pull off the mask and this time, he's surprised at the strength he hears in her voice.

"Tell Chloe I want to see her."


	16. Chapter 16

As promised, a bit of a longer chapter this time around!

Once again, thanks for dropping by to read. And to those of you who share your thoughts on it, an extra special thanks! I always appreciate the effort!

And as always: Roadrunnerz, you rock for reading through it and catching what mistakes I miss. :)

**Special note**: It seems a bit silly to change the rating on this chapter – especially for language purposes in this day and age, and even more especially for _one_ brief sentence – but since I have no idea how old my readers are, for this chapter at least, I'll increase the rating to M. Better safe than sorry.

Enjoy…

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 6 <strong>_

_**08:42 am**_

_**St. Andrew's hospital, New York City**_

Sitting nearly fully upright in the hospital bed, Renee carefully props her arms on the pillow resting across her midsection and watches another doctor – the third to see her since she woke up two hours ago – retreat from the room.

As the curtain is drawn and the door is closed, she checks the clock on the wall adjacent to her one more time. Registering the time, she tilts her head back to rest against the pillow behind her.

In the span of the one hundred and twenty-eight minutes that she's been awake, she's had one chest x-ray and, between the doctors and the nurse, endured four separate examinations; she's received one dose of pain medication, an antibiotic and three other types of medications, none of which she can name now, two through her IV and one as a shot in her lower abdomen – not her first by the looks of the small bruises dotting the skin there; she's had her dressings changed and, with a _lot_ of help from the nurse and the physical therapist, she sat on the edge of the bed and brushed her teeth.

One hundred and twenty-eight minutes… And she's already exhausted.

Hell, she _woke up_ exhausted.

And weak. She cannot believe how completely and utterly _weak_ she feels.

But, for probably the first time since waking up in this bed a few days ago, she feels relatively clear-headed.

The doctors and the nurse have all explained – and, in some cases, apparently _re_-explained – much of what's been going on with her since she was brought in. She's feeling somewhat overwhelmed by it all and much of her situation she's gauging by how she feels – which, admittedly, isn't even in the same universe as 'great.'

The ache she remembers being in her shoulder may be gone but the weakness and scattered numbness and tingling in her hips and legs is all still present. Between all the exams, she's noticed that it's worse with her right side and, according to the doctor who just left, they think that's because it's the side the bullet ended up on when it came to a stop near her spine. The doctor assured her that, while it may take some time, chances are good that most of it will improve if not resolve completely.

The way she'd said it, Renee wasn't sure if she was trying to reassure her or warn her.

While she's managed to bend her knees a little farther than the first time she remembers trying a few days ago, the fact that the physical therapist had to help her move her legs when they'd gotten her to sit on the edge of the bed hadn't been encouraging. Nor had the fact once they finally _got_ her to the edge of the bed, her right leg had twitched uncontrollably for an unbearably long moment, exacerbating the tingling there and sending stabbing pain up into her back.

The shortness of breath she'd encountered with just that little bit of exertion hadn't been reassuring, either. In fact, her inability to tolerate even that little bit of activity had taken her by surprise. Her abdomen and chest muscles throbbed intensely and incessantly as she sat there. She hadn't managed to sit on the edge of the bed for more than four or five minutes before she just couldn't bear it any longer.

On top of that, her cough – partially a result of the injury to her lung and partially a result of the pneumonia she's developed, according to the _second_ doctor who saw her this morning – is stronger and seems to be coming more frequently than before. Every time, it feels as though her incision is going to rip open and as if her lung is trying to expel the chest tube in any manner possible. Every time, the pain is incredible. Every time, it seems to last forever.

In fact, between the sharp pain and soreness near the chest tube and the incision; the continued burning and throbbing in her chest and torso; the deep ache she's picked up on in her back; and the tenderness near the arterial line in her left wrist, pain seems to be her constant companion.

The "good news," as they've called it, is that between the new surgical drain they placed a few days ago and the altered antibiotic regimen, the infection is being taken care of and her fevers are down. Best of all, at least in her opinion, they've just taken off the oxygen mask and replaced it with the normal oxygen tubing – which, in spite of still being an annoyance, is clearly the lesser of the two evils in terms of comfort.

She's also gotten her first look at the damage as her dressings were changed.

An incision, approximately five inches long and held together by small silver staples, stretches downward in a near perfect line beginning at the lower portion of her breastbone and ending a few inches above her navel. The bruising around the area is an ugly swirl of purple, red, yellow and green.

A small puncture lives to the left of the lower end of the incision where, according to the nurse, a surgical drain had been placed during her surgery. Higher up, on the upper right side of the incision, sits the new drain. Anchored in place by sutures, it is draining a cloudy, red-tinged yellow fluid.

Finally, along the right side of her ribcage, the chest tube still tunnels into her lung.

She rubs at her eyes. She shouldn't be here. She knows that.

Everything, all her knowledge, experience and training, tells her she should be dead right now. Between the distance and caliber of the rifle round, the damage it did – and should have done – and everything she's been told about how bad things have been for her in the wake of the shooting, she shouldn't have survived.

Yet she has. And she knows she should be feeling grateful that she's awake and sitting up in the bed right now.

But at the moment, she's not feeling grateful. She's not even sure she's feeling any semblance of relief.

What she_ is_ feeling, is uneasy. And it's a sensation that's been steadily brewing for over two hours now.

When she woke up this morning, Cole Ortiz had been at her bedside – which she still finds odd, given that they barely know each other. He'd explained that not only has she been drifting in and out of consciousness most of the past three and a half days but that even when she was awake during that time, she was mostly incoherent.

In spite of that, she remembers feeling like she was freezing. She remembers wanting more blankets and not understanding why they wouldn't give her even _one._

She recalls having intense and vivid dreams. About her time at Quantico. About Larry. About Vlad. About things she hasn't dreamt about in years.

And Jack. There had been dreams about Jack.

She remembers people talking to her – Chloe and Janis and other people whose voices she hadn't recognized.

But she not once does she remember hearing Jack's voice in the mix.

Not once has she _seen _Jack.

Her eyes drift closed now but in spite of the strong desire to do so, she doesn't give in to the need to sleep. Instead, after a long moment, she forces her eyes open to glance at the clock on the wall again before shifting her attention back to the curtain covering the door.

The rational part of her knows Jack could've been in to see her while she was unconscious or sedated or when she was out of it with fever and exhaustion. And, as she's thought about it in between being poked and prodded, she's remembered that Jack was planning on going to L.A. to be with his family before this whole mess began. So she's aware that there's a chance that's exactly where his is. Safe and sound.

But her gut is telling her that something is wrong.

When she asked Cole about Jack after she woke up this morning, his response had been to pull out his cell phone and call Chloe – who promptly told her she was on her way in and they'd talk when she got here. She'd hung up before Renee could argue. Then, before she could press Cole, the first doctor of the day walked in and he promptly stepped out into the hall.

It's been two hours now; Chloe still hasn't arrived and Cole hasn't returned.

She slips her hand under the pillow over her abdomen, finding the tender area around her incision and, doing her best to keep her eyes open, she shifts her gaze to her feet.

Her toes, painted red in a recent and rare moment when she cared enough to add some color to them, peek out from the end of the sheet. She orders them to move. The response is slow but they do as she commands and she moves on, demanding the same movement from her feet. Finally, she moves on to her knees, instructing them to bend; their response is much more tentative and limited but they do their best to comply.

Then she begins again, starting with her toes.

She does it all with her focus less on the commands and actions and the reasons behind the limitations and more on trying to sift through what she remembers of her previous conversation with Chloe.

It isn't until a full ten minutes later, just as she survives another round of coughing and just as the frustration and pain is beginning to get the better of her again, that Chloe and Janis finally walk through the door.

The instant her gaze lands on Chloe, Renee's head is off the pillow and she's targeting the woman with unwavering eyes.

"Where's Jack?" she demands without preamble.

Chloe sighs, her face transforming into an expression Renee has, in the short time she's known her, come to recognize as her 'uncomfortable' frown.

"We didn't really get to finish our conversation before," the woman says as she and Janis sit down in the chairs next to her bed, "You remember being shot, don't you."

It was a statement not a question, implying Chloe already knows the answer, and Renee's patience is thin.

"Chloe, please," she says on a weary and aggravated breath, "Just tell me where he is."

"I'm trying to tell you, Renee," Chloe says, her frown deepening, "But it's important that you understand a few things, too."

Renee briefly closes her eyes, her uneasiness building. If he was okay, Chloe would just answer the question. She wouldn't feel the need to explain.

"You remember that Jack brought you to the hospital?"

"I remember some of it," she confirms, "Mostly, I remember…"

_The look in his eyes,_ she wants to say, _and the sound of his voice._

She swallows and shakes her head. "I remember him carrying me. And that the sniper was still firing, still trying to kill me."

"The sniper was trying to kill both of you, Renee."

That catches Renee off guard and she looks back at Chloe, her brows knit tightly together. "Jack and I were_ both_ targets?"

"Yes."

Renee tightens her jaw. She should've realized that was a possibility before having to be told. "Why?"

"Because the EMT who killed Samir Mehran recognized you from your undercover days with Vladimir Laitanan and the Russians were worried you recognized him, too. They were worried you'd be able to expose their involvement in Hassan's murder."

"Wait," Renee says, shaking her head. For a moment, she wonders if maybe she's not as clear-headed as she thought. "The _Russians _were behind Hassan's murder? I… I don't understand, Chloe. I thought it was a faction of his own countrymen behind it. I mean… Are we talking the Russian mob here?"

Chloe presses her lips together and steals a quick glance at Janis. "We're talking the Russian _government_, Renee. Members of the Russian _government_ were behind everything that happened that day. They set it up so that Samir and his men would ultimately be held responsible. And they saw you as a threat to their anonymity."

Renee lifts her right hand to briefly rub at her forehead, not sure she completely understands. But what matters right now is Jack.

"And Jack?" she says, her brow furrowed, "Why was he a target?"

Chloe frowns. "We don't know. We just know that the sniper was planning on taking you both out."

Renee shifts her gaze away from Chloe, tensing as the understanding quickly strikes her.

"He was a target because he was with me," she says quietly, her eyes staring unseeingly at her toes.

Chloe is quick to try to dispel the notion. "Renee, we don't know that. We just know that you were both targets."

It doesn't matter what Chloe says, Renee knows she's right. There's no other explanation. If Jack hadn't been with her…

A memory of him suddenly flashes into her head. There had been blood soaking his shirt. Had it really been all hers?

"But Jack's okay?" she asks, switching her gaze back to Chloe, needing to hear the confirmation once more.

"Jack wasn't shot by the sniper, Renee."

"You said that before. But you didn't actually answer the question, Chloe. Is he okay?"

Chloe glances at Janis and Renee doesn't miss it.

_Oh, God, _she realizes, her heart sinking into her stomach,_ He's not okay._

She drops her head against the pillow behind her and swallows hard, fighting down the tears she can feel threatening to spring to her eyes. "Is he… alive?"

"The last time I saw him…" Chloe answers quietly, "Yes."

Renee curls her right hand into a fist where it rests under the pillow covering her abdomen. "The last time you…"

She starts to draw another breath before she continues but moment she does, the urge to cough seizes her. She fights it, trying to put it off by clearing her throat instead. It doesn't work and the series of coughs come anyway, triggering sharp twinges to stab beneath the ache in the center of her body. She hugs the pillow against her abdomen and chest and squeezes her eyes shut against the spike in pain.

A fleeting wave of nausea passes through her just as one of the alarms behind her starts to sound.

The pain and noise set her teeth on edge.

It feels like forever before she catches her breath and the alarm dies down again, but finally she manages to get the question out.

"He's not coming, is he?"

"He doesn't know you're here, Renee."

The furrow in Renee's brow deepens and she opens her eyes to focus on Chloe. "I don't… I don't understand," she says, "He brought me here, didn't he?"

Sighing, Chloe glances at Janis again and Renee follows her gaze to see Janis' expression is tense and cautious.

"Renee," Chloe says, frustration seeping into her tone, "After Jack brought you in... They told him, they told _both _of us that you didn't make it."

"What?" Renee stops and looks at Chloe in disbelief. She can't possibly be hearing this right. "Why would they… You're saying that Jack… thinks I'm _dead_?"

Chloe nods. "Yes," she says softly.

"But it's been_ days, _Chloe!" Renee growls.

Instantly, she is rewarded with a sharp stabbing pain somewhere beneath her incision and another lengthy series of coughs, the force of which leads her to see stars behind eyes that are once again clenched shut.

The moment she can release the words without sparking another cough, she targets Chloe with narrowed eyes.

"Why haven't you told him the truth!"

"I can't."

"Why the hell not?" Renee demands, even as she's shoving the pillow aside and trying to push herself to the edge of the bed. "Where -"

"Renee," Janis steps in now, rising to her feet, "Stop."

Renee does.

Abruptly.

But not because of Janis.

Her intention had been to get out of the bed altogether. She'll find and tell Jack herself, if that's what it's going to take. But she instantly feels the repercussions of the effort as the IV's and various tubes pull, the pain spikes, the room quickly begins to spin and a spasm arises deep in her back.

"You need to calm down," she hears Janis saying now.

Groaning, Renee screws her eyes shut and crushes the sheet beneath her hand as the contracting and shuddering of muscle quickly spreads, wrapping itself around her entire torso. For a few frighteningly long moments, she can't draw a breath, much less expel one.

"Renee?" she hears Chloe ask, "Are you okay?"

Another alarm, different than the one that sounded just a moment ago, begins to blare. The previous alarm quickly joins it and the cacophony grates on Renee's nerves.

Finally, and agonizingly slowly, the muscles in her back, chest and abdomen begin to relax. They relinquish their hold on her lungs first and immediately, she has to cough.

When the coughing fit finally passes, she opens her eyes and targets Janis with an angry, if temporarily unfocused, glare. _"I'm not going to calm down, Janis!"_ she finally grinds out over the alarms. " Jack -"

"Renee," Janis cuts her off. She grabs Renee's hand where it still fiercely clutches the sheet. "Renee, I understand. But if you don't calm down, they're going to come in here and -"

She doesn't get the chance to finish because in that instant the door is already sliding open and a tall, thin brunette is stepping into the room. Renee recognizes her as Maggie, the nurse who examined her earlier, and where her dark eyes were kind and gentle before, they are now sharp and chastising.

"Okay, that's enough," the woman says crisply, "I think it's time for a break."

"We're not done!" Renee snaps before she can stop herself.

Maggie steps over to the bed to silence the alarms and when she looks down at Renee, both her expression and eyes are uncompromising.

"Renee," she says firmly, "if you – and your body – don't settle down, you _will_ be done. In more ways than one. Your body just can't take the stress right now."

She pauses to give Chloe and Janis a reprimanding glance. "And I thought I warned you about that."

Jaw clenched against the pain, Renee settles back down into the bed and silently curses her physical state. She can't even move on her own without everything going to hell.

"This is a formal agency briefing," she says curtly, hoping the 'official' inference will prompt the nurse to leave them alone. It's not even a complete lie. "It's important that we finish it."

"And I understand that," Maggie says with a nod, "But _my_ priority is your recovery. If this session is interfering with that then I'm sure my superiors will back me when I put an end to it. You've already had one setback; trust me, you don't need another. Do you understand?"

Renee glowers at her but the woman doesn't back down. After all, she isn't the one lying helpless in a bed.

"Do you understand, Renee?" Maggie repeats.

Finally, Renee tilts her head back against the pillows and briefly closes her eyes, a wave of resentment washing over her. The lack of control she has over things right now is really starting to piss her off.

"Yes," she breathes, forcing herself to release the death-grip she has on the sheet.

"Good," Maggie says, shifting her eyes away from Renee to glance up at the monitors. She says nothing for a long moment, merely watching the data on the screens. Finally, she sighs. "That's better," she says with satisfaction.

When Maggie looks down at Renee again, Renee sees that her eyes have lost some of their sharpness.

"Now," the nurse says with arched brows, "if you can keep things under control, they can stay a while longer. But the moment I see things are escalating again…"

Again, she tosses Chloe and Janis a pointed look. "…you're out. I don't care what agencies you're with."

Renee works the muscles in her jaw even while Janis voices her understanding.

"Good," Maggie says with a glance at her watch, "I'll be back in fifteen minutes with something for the pain and another antibiotic."

Renee opens her mouth to protest but the nurse cuts her off. "Fifteen minutes, Renee. And then it _will_ be time for a break."

With that, Maggie turns and leaves. The instant the door closes behind her, Renee pins Chloe with a dark and unyielding look of her own.

"Where is he, Chloe?" she demands tightly, trying to keep control of her temper, "Where is he right _now_?"

She watches as the muscles around Chloe's mouth tense. "I don't know," the woman admits quietly.

Renee fights back the urge to shout at the woman. In their last conversation, Chloe easily shared information. Now, Renee feels like she's having to pry the answers out of her. It doesn't help her feel reassured, nor does it help her depleted patience level.

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

"Renee, after they told him you died …"

Chloe hesitates for a moment too long and Renee presses her lips into a thin line, tightening her jaw as she shakes her head. "Chloe, so help me God…"

"He lost it Renee!" Chloe blurts out, "Okay? Jack lost it!"

What follows is a rapid jumble of words Renee initially finds difficult to fully grasp.

"He went to see Bazhaev, who told him that the Russians were behind the hit on you and Hassan's murder and the nuclear rods. And he found out that Dana Walsh was working for them and he tried to interrogate her to find out exactly who ordered the hits on you and Hassan but she demanded immunity in return for - "

"Chloe," Renee cuts her off, "slow down. I remember Dana was the mole. But she was working for the _Russians_?"

Chloe releases a harsh breath and the scowl on her face deepens even further. "Yes. And she demanded immunity in exchange for information. Jack spoke to the president but she refused to give Dana the deal. And then she ordered Jack locked down."

Renee pulls her brows together, not understanding. "She _what_? Why?"

"Because she was afraid Jack would expose it all. He…"

Chloe hesitates and when she speaks again both her voice and her scowl have softened.

"He lost control after that, Renee. He went against the president and managed to avoid the lockdown. But only because he went on the run."

Renee shifts her gaze to a point just beyond Chloe's shoulder, her stomach beginning to churn. She can already sense that, just as her gut has been telling her, this story is not going to end well.

"The president had Dana moved to a secure location," she hears Chloe go on, "Jack found her anyway. He managed to get video evidence of the Russians' involvement from her but then… then he shot and killed her."

Something in Chloe's tone feeds Renee's unease and she shifts her eyes back to her. "You mean in a firefight? Or was it self-defense?"

Chloe shakes her head. "It didn't look like it was either one."

At the insinuation, Renee bites down on the inside of her lower lip. From everything she's come to learn of him, that doesn't sound like Jack. At least not the Jack she thinks she knows.

"Then he went after anyone and everyone involved. He tracked down the man who shot you and killed him, too. But he didn't stop there."

Chloe drops her gaze for a moment.

"Chloe?" Renee prompts impatiently.

"He found out Charles Logan was involved with the Russians, Renee."

At the name, a slew of connections fly through Renee's mind and her eyes shift from point to point in the area in front of her.

"Obstruction of Justice" had been the official and public charge against the former president, but she'd been in a position to learn that there were far more grievous crimes committed by the man. She also knows from certain elements of his file that Jack's had his share of unpleasant dealings with him in the past.

As her gaze rests on her toes again, she swiftly filters through the possible scenarios she's about to hear. Not one of them is good.

"Did he…" She stops. She can't even bring herself to verbalize it.

"No. He didn't kill him. He kidnapped him."

Renee doesn't feel much relief at that but she knows it could've been much worse.

"I'm not actually sure what Jack did to him," she hears Chloe go on, "but he must've gotten the information he wanted because then he went after the Russian Foreign Minister." She pauses again and Renee braces herself. "Renee… Jack killed him. And his entire security detail."

Renee closes her eyes, trying to swallow the lump of emotion stuck in her throat. _Oh Jack…_

"And then he targeted Suvarov."

Eyes flying open, Renee looks back at Chloe, her brows raised in shock. "_President_ Suvarov?"

"Yes."

Stunned, Renee once again finds it difficult to breathe and, much to her chagrin, she is forced to cough in order to bring about the air exchange. She grimaces from the pain it elicits and struggles to get her question out. "Why?"

"Jack followed the trail and it led to him. He helped facilitate Hassan's murder. And he was ultimately the man who gave the order to kill you."

"Oh God," Renee breathes, tears rising to sting her eyes in spite of her attempt to keep them down. She swallows hard, the grimace still clouding her features. The implications of this… "Jack assassinated the Russian president."

"No," Chloe replies softly and Renee looks back at her with a mixture of confusion, relief and dread. "I… I was able to talk him down before he could pull the trigger."

"So… What, Chloe?" Renee asks, her brows arched as she draws conclusions on her own, "Jack's in custody?"

"No. The order was to shoot to kill, Renee."

Renee drops her head back against the pillow behind her, the churning in her stomach transforming into full-fledged nausea.

_No, _she finds herself chanting silently, _No, no, no…_

"Wait, that's not what I mean," Chloe says quickly, as if guessing where Renee's mind is taking her, "I mean…"

She hesitates and Renee watches her glance briefly at Janis as if uncertain.

"I managed to stop him from killing Suvarov," she finally goes on, "but in the process… he was… shot. It wasn't fatal, but he was being transported back to CTU when his ambulance was attacked."

"What do you mean, '_attacked_'?"

"It's a long story but basically, Logan had a stake in not wanting the truth to come out. He arranged a hit on Jack and President Taylor authorized it."

The statement floors Renee. "Taylor _sanctioned_ it? Why _the hell_ would she do that?"

"The peace conference."

"The peace agreement was dead the moment Hassan was murdered, Chloe. Jack said Taylor was calling it off."

"Hassan's wife agreed to step in as Acting IRK President and continue it."

Renee shakes her head. This story is almost dizzying in its convolutions.

"Jack told the president about the Russians but she was afraid if it got out it would threaten the peace accord. _That's_ why she wouldn't give Dana immunity. _That's_ why she tried to lock Jack down. But Jack was intent on revealing both the Russians and the cover-up. He got Dana's evidence to a reporter but President Taylor had her taken into custody and had the evidence seized. He also managed to record a conversation between Logan and Suvarov that apparently proved Suvarov's involvement in everything. He gave it to me but it was confiscated before I could distribute it."

"You've got to be…"

Renee stops, abruptly ambushed by another coughing attack. She clenches her eyes shut as she struggles through it, one hand clutching the sheet, the other pressing lightly over the dressing covering her incision. When it finally passes, she drops her head back against the pillow and tries to catch her breath.

Silencing the truth? Censoring the press?

It sounds more like Charles Logan than the woman she knows to be president; the woman who sent her own daughter to prison rather than be part of a conspiracy to conceal the truth; the woman who has defended the sanctity of The Constitution throughout her political career.

And for her to do that to Jack…

"This is insane," she mutters, the outrage stirring in her.

"Taylor and Logan tried to cover everything up, Renee. Not just the Russians' involvement with the fuel rods and the dirty bomb, but Hassan's murder. And yours."

_And Jack wouldn't have stood for any of that,_ Renee acknowledges silently.

"In the end," Janis finally chimes in, "Taylor came clean. The peace agreement is dead, Renee. She's resigned the presidency. And Logan… tried to kill himself."

"Sure," Renee fumes, not feeling the least bit of sympathy for them, "after the damage has already been done."

When Chloe doesn't continue, Renee shifts her head to look at her, anger tightening her features.

"So the ambulance?"

Chloe's already morose expression darkens. "Ambushed by Logan's men."

"And Jack?"

"Drone coverage at the time showed all the accompanying agents wounded but there was no sign of Jack at the scene."

Renee stares back at her, her teeth clenched and tears glistening in her hardened eyes. But they're tears of anger now. Anger and grief.

_This can't have happened. They can't have just…_

Bile rises into her throat, forcing her to perform the difficult task of trying to swallow both it and the knot of emotions threatening to choke her.

"Logan's team got to him then," she manages finally.

She presses her eyes closed and a few errant tears escape her control, trailing down her cheeks unchecked.

"The alerts on Jack have all gone national now, Renee," she hears Chloe explain, "All the agencies are looking for him. But there's no sign of him."

Renee keeps her painful breaths slow and measured but she can feel her nostrils flaring.

"Of course there wouldn't be any sign of him," she mutters bitterly, "Logan's men were sent to kill him. They'd be intent on erasing their tracks so they'd erase all traces of Jack, too."

She opens her eyes to glare up at the ceiling again, the events occurring after her 'death' falling devastatingly into place in her head.

_Can things get any more screwed up? _

She turns her eyes back on the women next to her bed.

"How the hell did this happen?" she demands, "Why the _hell _would they tell him I was dead?"

Chloe looks at Janis and arches her brows. "I think I'll let you field that one..."

* * *

><p><em><strong>09:22 am<strong>_

_**Cole's apartment, New York City**_

Cole stands in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom and tries to keep his mind focused on the simple task of knotting his tie rather than the sick feeling in his stomach, the morning ahead or the haphazard state of the room around him.

Behind him, his bed – the bed he'd last shared with Dana just a week ago – is bare, the sheets and comforter tossed in a heap on the floor. The mattress has been dislodged and cut open, most of its innards scattered on the floor with a mix of books, pictures and much of the contents of the closet and dresser drawers.

The rest of the apartment isn't in much better shape.

He came home a few days ago to pick up some clothes and found the place had basically been ransacked. He hadn't been surprised. Nor has he bothered trying to clean it up. He's not sure whether he has the FBI or CTU to thank for the mess but in all honesty, they probably just got to it before he had. If he'd spent any more time here, he probably would've destroyed the place himself. In any case, he supposes he should be glad the suit he's currently wearing had been left in one piece.

Done with the tie, he steps over a pile of clothes and sits down on the edge of the only part of the mattress still on the box spring. Elbows on his knees, he glances at himself in the mirror again before his gaze quickly drops to his hands where they are clasped in front of him.

_Two hours... Two hours and it'll be done._

The viewing and rosary last night had been bad enough.

Before it even started, he'd found himself standing in front of the casket, in front of her body, wondering how everything that had happened could be real.

He stood there remembering the day they met, they day he proposed, the day she was killed.

He stood there knowing that behind him, some of the looks of sympathy aimed at him were tainted by suspicions.

He stood there ignoring the whispers he knew were probably taking place when he was out of earshot, whispers asking many of the questions he's been asking himself since he learned of her duplicity.

_How could he not know? How could he have been so blind? Surely there were hints? Clues? _

In fact, at one point in the past few days, while sitting with Renee, he'd found himself pouring over his and Dana's joint banking records, trying to see if there was money that shouldn't be there. When he found nothing out of the ordinary, he searched for other accounts under Dana's name. Then Jenny Scott's. It hadn't mattered that CTU had probably already performed the same search. He needed to see for himself.

He found nothing.

He stood there as the questions he's been avoiding for days forced their way to the surface.

What it might have been like had she lived? Would he be testifying against her? Would he have listened as she tried to explain? Would the explanation have been the same one she'd tried to give him before? Would he have forgiven her? Can he forgive her now? Or ever?

He stood there asking himself if it was possible that the reason he was so easily swayed to help Jack get to Dana was because on some level, after her betrayal, he_ wanted _Jack to find her – and not just because he wanted the truth to come out.

It was then that a woman he'd never met placed a hand on his shoulder and brought him out of it. Ruth Scott. Dana's sister. The one he never knew existed. The one who'd been holding a child that, had things worked out differently, would've been his nephew. The one who'd not only made a request that a specific piece of music be played during the funeral, but also asked for a few minutes of his time after the service today.

Last night was virtually unbearable. To have to do it all over again this morning…

Well, there's a large part of him that would've been happy to skip the next few hours and stay at Renee's bedside. Instead, it'll be Janis with Renee while _he_ sits in a church, saying goodbye to a woman he both knew and didn't know, loves and hates depending on the moment, all while questions old and new assail him.

Fidgeting with his hands, he gets a glimpse of his watch and discovers that somehow, he's been sitting here for five minutes already.

With a sigh of resignation, he pushes himself to his feet and moves back into the living room.

In spite of the disarray left behind by the CTU or FBI investigators, his eyes are drawn to what remains of the mess Dana's friends made. The mess he never bothered to clean up.

He doesn't make a move to do it now, either. Instead, he grabs his suit jacket and moves to the door, already counting the minutes until this day is over.

* * *

><p><em><strong>09:32 am<strong>_

_**St. Andrew's Hospital, New York City**_

Renee glares at a wrinkle in the sheet covering her knees, struggling to keep in mind the adage "don't kill the messenger."

She's listened in barely-controlled but furious silence as Janis explained the FBI's concerns about her undercover mission as well as their tracking of the Russians and the rest of the events leading up to and following her being shot.

"…and the protection protocol has been in place ever since," she hears Janis conclude next to her, "In case the Russians find out you survived."

Renee snorts. "They knew and they didn't stop him from…" She closes her eyes and tries to remember to breathe. "And they didn't think Jack…"

She stops, her lips pressed into a fine line, her hands curled into fists and her ears hot from the frustration and anger she's trying to keep in check.

"I know," Janis says, "And I don't agree with their decision to keep him out of it any more than you or Chloe but… They thought they were doing what was best for you at the time, Renee."

Renee targets Janis with sharply narrowed eyes, barely resisting the urge to scream.

"What would have been best would've been to pick up a goddamned phone and call us, Janis! _That_ would've been best! And it would've been best to tell Jack the truth! _That_ would've been best!"

As she knew it would even as she started it, the outburst triggers another coughing fit but she staves it off long enough to finish.

"For Christ's sake! Who the hell's in charge over there?"

When the coughing passes a quick moment later, Renee raises her right hand to squeeze her temples and waits for the alarm behind her to stop. If she wasn't so utterly exhausted or so physically incapable right now she'd storm over to the FBI offices and demand to have the SAC's ass on a platter.

"And why are they even still here?" she demands, looking back at Janis, "I thought the issue was the Russians were afraid I could link them to Hassan's murder. But from what you two have said, President Taylor's already exposed them. She has the all the evidence Jack was able to get. I'm not a threat anymore."

"That _was_ the issue," Chloe cuts in for the first time since handing the job of explaining the situation over to Janis, "But there's more to it now."

Renee shifts her angry eyes to glance at Chloe, finding her face set in yet another subtle variation of a scowl as she shifts in her chair.

"Of course there is," she mutters and looks away. At this point, she isn't even sure she wants to hear it.

"Jack got his initial tip that the Russians were involved from Sergei Bazhaev, Renee."

"The man who was moving the nuclear rods," Renee acknowledges flatly, instantly recognizing the name.

"Yes," Chloe confirms with a nod, "He was found dead in his cell the night after you were shot. The night after Jack talked to him. The police believe it was suicide."

Chloe doesn't even have to say it for Renee to understand that she's not buying that explanation and the sense of foreboding returns to settle into the pit of her stomach.

"That same night," Chloe goes on, "the evidence that the president ordered be confiscated from the reporter and from me was stolen out of DOJ custody. The next morning, the reporter was found dead in her apartment. Also an apparent suicide."

It doesn't even take half a second for Renee to see the implication. She huffs and shakes her head in angry understanding. "They're cleaning up after themselves."

"I think so, yes. The Russians are denying involvement, Renee. With the evidence gone and Logan not in any condition to confirm or deny anything, President Taylor can't prove the allegations against them. You and Jack are the only two left with any sort of ability to substantiate her claims."

"Except it looks like Jack's been killed by Logan's men and I'm presumed dead."

"For now," Janis says, "But Renee, if the Russians get wind you're alive they'll be coming after you again. _That's_ why the FBI is still here."

"That's also why I've put Cole here," Chloe adds, "I wanted one of our own involved with the protocol."

Just then, the door slides open and Maggie pulls back the curtain.

"Okay, time's up, ladies."

Renee glances at the clock on the wall and sees that Maggie was generous and gave them a full five extra minutes. She's just about to take advantage of that generosity and ask for ten more but Janis stops her the moment she opens her mouth.

"Renee," she says quietly, "she's right. You need a break. You already have a lot to process. I'll just wait outside and let you rest."

Chloe seems to hesitate for a moment but then she rises to her feet. "Yeah," she agrees with a stiff frown, "We'll talk more later."

Before Renee can argue, Maggie is pushing them toward the door and as they all disappear into the corridor, Renee drops her head back onto her pillow and closes her eyes, nauseated and drained.

_What a fucking mess._


	17. Chapter 17

Thanks for hanging in there with this story! Extra thanks for those kind enough to share their thoughts.

And RR, you rock!

Enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 6<strong>_

_**11:09 am**_

_**The Ophelia, North Atlantic Ocean**_

Edwin Murro opens the door to the infirmary as quietly as possible.

As he has every day since he's met the man, John West arrived in the infirmary early this morning visibly exhausted. Not only have the shadows under his eyes grown noticeably darker over the past few days, his cheeks have begun to take up the hollowed look of someone not sleeping well at night. It's gotten to the point where Edwin's begun to wonder if, beyond the few cat naps he's seen him achieve here and there between the dressing changes, meds and barely-touched meals, the man ever really sleeps at all.

To this point, his naps haven't seemed to last very long. In fact, even the slightest noise seems to bring him fully awake. On the one or two occasions where that hasn't happened, a dream or nightmare seems to be the culprit.

This morning however, John had dozed off after breakfast and was asleep for nearly an hour when Edwin left the infirmary to respond to the ship's whistle that signaled an intruder alarm. Surprisingly, John had appeared to sleep through the piercing sound and in spite of company regs, he hadn't woken him for the routine drill.

Not only did the man desperately need the sleep, he doubted John could've physically managed the procedures anyway – an assessment the captain seemed willing to accept and agree with. Besides, with the required readiness drills always on the horizon, it won't be the last one they have on this voyage.

The pirate attack drill the captain subjected them to lasted forty-five minutes. The departmental meeting to discuss their performance took another twenty. Through it all, he's wondered if John managed to sleep through the remainder of the initial alarm as well as the subsequent general alarm. If he finds John still asleep, it'll be the longest nap the man has been able to achieve so far.

He'd like to keep him there if he can.

He steps over to the far exam table but even before he's halfway there, it becomes apparent that while John has indeed managed to sleep through the general alarm, he's become ensnared in another nightmare.

Pulling back the curtain, what he sees of the man sparks him to call his name and shake him in an effort to bring him out of it. An instant later, he finds his hand and wrist locked in John's grip – the ferocity of which stuns him into silence. That is, until John begins to twist. Hard.

"John!" he cries out.

John doesn't let go and Edwin feels the muscles and tendons crying out as they are twisted beyond their normal limits. In an intrinsic effort to lessen the strain, he bends his body into the twist in an effort to lessen the strain.

"John! Wake up!"

Just as Edwin is certain that any further bending of his wrist will surely break it, John's eyes – hard and angry – fly open. Immediately, Edwin's wrist is released and he instinctively takes a step back and rubs at it. Sprained, he decides, not broken.

"I'm sorry," John declares on a harsh breath, even as his gaze quickly darts around the room.

It's clear that the man is still trying to come back to reality but even as John's breathing begins to slow and the anger in his eyes begins to fade, Edwin can see hints of something akin to shame beginning to color the man's usually pale and impassive features.

"I'm sorry, Edwin," John repeats as he pulls the oxygen from his nose and starts to sit up. Still stunned by the speed and strength he'd just displayed, Edwin automatically reaches out to help steady him. He's rewarded for his effort with tiny pinpricks of pain that shoot through his wrist and elicit a wince of his own.

Making it into a sitting position on the edge of the exam table, John wipes the perspiration from his face with a palm. "I… I wasn't - "

"Doc?" a heavily accented voice interrupts from the other side of the room, "Doc? You here?"

Edwin leans back on his heels and peeks around the curtain separating him and John from the rest of the infirmary. He finds a tall, bulky and unfamiliar man with dark hair and a round face standing in the doorway holding his left forearm; though it's wrapped in a gray cloth, Edwin thinks he gets a glimpse of blood.

"Be right there. Have a seat."

He looks back at John, finding the man's gaze already on the floor and his expression once again indecipherable.

"Put that back on," Edwin says quietly, giving a nod toward the oxygen tubing still in John's hand, "Lay down and try to rest. I'll be back."

Edwin steps beyond the curtain and over to his new patient. Over the next few minutes, he listens as the newly-hired able-bodied seaman relays his story. Apparently, Miljenko Vusic – as he introduced himself before insisting on being called "Mike" – had been doing some routine maintenance on deck when the pirate alarm sounded. As he responded, his foot got caught in some loose lashings and he fell against the sharp edge of his toolbox, earning himself a nice gash on his forearm; one that had to forgo treatment until the drill was complete.

A fairly straight-forward appearing injury, Edwin quickly gets down to cleaning the wound, feeling the occasional sharp twinges in his own wrist depending on how he moves it.

Even as he continues to talk to and work with Mike, Edwin finds his mind drifting to the seaman on the other side of the room. More than once, usually whenever Mike curses and tries to jerk his arm away from his ministrations, he's reminded of John's remarkable ability to tolerate pain. After all, the man he's working on has one gash that's requiring a few simple sutures – a painful enough situation, he'd be the first to admit – but by the time he's done cleaning the wound, it strikes him that he's given Mike more pain medication than he's given John in the entirety of the time he's known him.

As he begins to stitch the wound closed, Edwin finds himself wondering if John's managed to fall asleep again. After what he witnessed both before and after waking him, he doubts it.

He can only speculate what the nightmares are about but if they're that bad, he decides, he probably wouldn't be able to sleep, either.

* * *

><p>Jack sits on the edge of the exam table, only partially aware of the conversation and activity taking place on the other side of the room.<p>

He rubs at his eyes and glances at the clock on the wall before lowering his gaze to the oxygen tubing in his hands.

It feels as though he dozed off for only a few minutes but apparently, _surprisingly_, it was much longer than that. Long enough, in fact, to allow another series of dreams to fully establish their grip.

The nightmares are only getting worse – if that's at all possible – becoming the sleep thieves he'd known they'd likely develop into. Though he doesn't remember them all, he knows he'd floated from one to the next and the most recent one still lingers in his mind, leaving him with a residual uneasiness he's still trying to shake off.

The moment he became aware of the firm pressure against his chest, he reacted swiftly and instinctively against the threat. In the dream, it was merely the first step in a quick succession of efficient and lethal moves against the Russian he was fighting.

He'd barely started the sequence when a voice, urgent and out of place, penetrated the dream. He hadn't recognized it, but it was enough to dislodge the dream's hold and he'd woken to the sight of fear and pain distorting Edwin's features.

Another few seconds and not only would Edwin's wrist have been broken but he'd also have had a pair of hands snapping his neck.

Another few seconds and the Russian would've been dead.

Another few seconds and Renee would've been okay.

He swallows, idly watching his thumbnail bite into the thin plastic tubing in his hand, acknowledging to himself that if he could've just achieved those last two things, he would've been okay with the first.

He knows it's ridiculous.

Or at least it should be.

After all, Renee Walker was a woman he'd known _less than two days_. How could she have worked her way so deeply into his being to affect him like this?

He huffs softly and shakes his head, recalling that he'd wondered much the same thing after he'd come out of his coma. When thoughts of her seemed so prevalent. When he'd wanted to see her. Talk to her. Then had come the worry. And the need to know that she was okay.

That was after knowing her for one day. And none of it had weakened or gone away as the months passed.

Somehow, she'd managed to establish a hold on him. One that, even in death, seems isn't going to be easily relinquished.

_It needs to stop_, he tells himself. _It just… needs to stop._

Before it consumes him.

And yet, deep down he knows he doesn't have any control over it. That much was apparent just a few days ago, after he'd lost her – no, after she was taken from him. What he did then, in those hours afterwards…

Suddenly and without even being fully aware of it, his mind abruptly switches tracks.

He should've been able to stop it. He should've done more for her.

If he'd just been more cautious… If he'd just let her walk away… If he'd just listened to his instincts…

_Dammit, why didn't I listen? _

He sighs and pushes a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of too many things pushing him down into the padded table underneath him.

A moment later, Edwin's quiet chuckle makes it into his awareness and he listens to him as he works with the other man. He is just as friendly and pleasant with his newest patient as he's been with him. Jack imagines he's trying to be just as gentle, too.

He's spent six days with Edwin Murro now. Sometimes, as if in an effort to fill the silence and break the monotony, the man talks about his life. Because of this, Jack has learned about Edwin's family, the grandchild on the way and his looming retirement. As his instincts told him at the start, Edwin is a good man. A good man with a wife and two sons. A good man who has done nothing but help him, at the very least holding infection at bay which in turn has probably saved his life. A good man who's been kind to him when he didn't have to be. Who hasn't pressed him for details or made demands for answers Jack can't and won't supply.

In another life, they very well might've been friends.

Yet Jack could've killed him a few minutes ago – _would have_ killed him if it meant saving Renee. Even if it wasn't a dream.

And right now, he's not certain of how to reconcile that understanding in his head.

* * *

><p>When Edwin finishes with Mike and draws back the curtain to join John again, he discovers that not only is John not laying down and resting but he hasn't put the oxygen back in his nose, either. In fact, he doesn't appear to have moved at all. Even his eyes seem focused on the same spot on the floor as when he'd left to tend to Mike.<p>

"John…"

Though the man blinks slowly, John's bloodshot eyes don't shift up to look at him. "I'm sorry, Edwin."

He can sense the man's guilt lingering in him despite the stoic façade. "I know," he reassures him, "You were having a nightmare."

Still avoiding his eyes, John shifts his gaze to the oxygen tubing still in his hand. He fidgets with it. "I'm…"

The man shakes his head, his eyes shifting sideways to look at Edwin's wrist. Then he sets the oxygen tubing aside and pushes himself off the table with a grimace.

"I think I better go."

Edwin pulls his brows together. Whatever he expected John to say, that wasn't it. "Go where?"

John looks past Edwin toward the door as if trying to decide on an answer, as if trying to _find_ an answer.

"John," Edwin says quietly, firmly, "For Pete's sake, sit down. _Lay_ down. You're not going anywhere right now."

Finally, John meets his eyes and Edwin sees the same weary and closed off look he's grown accustomed to seeing in the man. After a moment however, the man lowers his gaze back to his hands. Then, without a word he lays back down on the exam table and briefly closes his eyes – only to wince and open them again to stare at the ceiling.

Edwin frowns, a thought taking shape in his head now. The little grimaces he's sometimes seen when John closes his eyes... All this time, he's thought they've been related to the physical discomfort he must be in. But now he wonders if the nightmares come a lot more frequently than he's thought and whether they follow him, stealing into his mind's eye even when he's awake.

If that's the case, no wonder the man seems so exhausted and so… withdrawn.

In fact, it strikes him now, as he stands there, that looking at John is sometimes like looking at a shell of a man. He see every tangible bit of John West – except for the life that normally exists in people's eyes.

Suddenly, he becomes aware that those eyes are now back on him.

"Are you okay?" the man asks quietly.

Edwin pulls his brows together, but before he can ask the question, the man goes on. "Your wrist."

"It's nothing a little ice and ibuprofen won't take care of, John. Are _you_ okay?"

"Fine," he replies, turning his eyes back to the ceiling.

Concerned, Edwin tries to give him the opportunity to talk about it. "Must've been pretty bad, the nightmare."

John closes his eyes. This time, he keeps them shut. "Yeah," he exhales.

Edwin says nothing for a moment. He knows he shouldn't push. He does it anyway. "It's not the first you've had here, John."

When the man remains silent, Edwin's frown deepens. It hadn't been a question but he had hoped for some kind of response.

_Tell me your story, John_, he wants to say, observing him for another moment. Hands clasped – no, not merely clasped, but _clenched_ – and resting on his abdomen. Body tense. Jaw tight, his breathing is not that of someone relaxed or even someone comfortable.

Edwin knows he could chalk it up to pain or fatigue but something tells him what he's seeing goes deeper than that. Before him is a man burned out. A man burdened. A man, as clichéd as it might sound if he uttered it aloud, with the weight of the world bearing down on him.

"If you want to talk about it…" he says, giving up going with the subtle route.

He watches as the man's eyes open to stare at the wall beyond his feet. "It's fine, Edwin," John mumbles finally, "Really."

The slight hesitation leads him to debate whether to push it further. Whether to ask what drives the nightmares. Whether to mention the woman's name he's overheard him mumble in his sleep. Or to ask how he got the wounds and scars.

"Put the oxygen back on and rest," he says instead, unable to keep some of his disappointment from coloring his tone, "I've got to do the paperwork on my new friend Mike."

Turning to reach for the curtain, Edwin catches the hint of yet another grimace lining John's features and another realization sets in.

With each passing day, and in spite of the physical progress John may be making, his curiosity about the man is edging further and further into worry.


	18. Chapter 18

Once again, thanks for reading and sharing your thoughts on it. Extra thanks to Roadrunnerz for the editing eyes.

Enjoy...

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 6 <strong>_

_**03: 30 pm**_

_**St. Andrew's Hospital, New York City**_

Sitting up in bed, Renee runs her fingertips lightly along an area of her right thigh where the sensation is still dulled.

She should feel more worried about the numbness and weakness in her hips and legs. She knows she should. In fact, she should be feeling more concerned about _everything_ associated with her condition. But as her gaze shifts from spot to spot, resting on nothing in particular, her mind is more consumed by other things.

In spite of her attempts to fight it, she dozed off for hours after Maggie gave her the pain medication. She can still feel the residual fog lingering on the outer edges of her awareness but while it's taken the edge off her pain, it's done nothing to dull her anger as she continues to process the aftermath of her shooting.

Nor has it suppressed her worry for Jack.

In fact, she's woken up to a reality that's so completely different from the one she knew before she was shot, she's still trying to comprehend it all.

Charles Logan has somehow managed to go from being a political outcast to infiltrating the president's inner circle. President Taylor has morphed into someone Renee wouldn't have thought possible – censoring the press, smothering the truth, authorizing hits. And the FBI…

The _FBI_ went and blatantly threw basic protocol and regulations out the window, failing not just to notify the proper agencies of an existing potential threat to various political dignitaries but also failing to inform her and Jack of the threat on their lives.

What has her even more incensed at the moment is that though the Bureau has tried to protect her after the fact, they lied to the _one person_ who probably would've protected her without even being asked – and done it singlehandedly, no less – just because that's who he was.

Instead, because of their short-sightedness, Jack believed she was dead. Because of _that_, he went on to… avenge her? Retaliate? She isn't even sure of the word. But in the process of doing _that_, he discovered more crimes.

And apparently committed a few of his own.

He went against the current president and kidnapped a former one. He killed the man who shot her. Killed a woman at the periphery of the conspiracy. Killed a visiting diplomat and his security team. Targeted a foreign head of state.

And, even as he tried to expose the truth, he wound up the target of a government-sanctioned hit.

A hit that appears might have succeeded.

_Jack Bauer..._

A man who's done so much in the service of his country – _lost _so much while in the service of his country – and had somehow come to mean more to her than should've been possible in the brief hours she's known him, sentenced to death by the very same president who, eighteen months ago, owed him more than she could possibly repay.

At the thought of Jack dead, grief once again swells in her chest and rises into her throat. While she makes an effort to suppress it, soon she is shifting her hand to fiddle with the trail of oxygen tubing, absently twisting it around her fingers as anger, sadness and frustration blend with the sorrow coursing through her.

The guilt has begun to settle in as well.

_If I wasn't so ridiculously screwed up_, she admits to herself,_ he would've gotten on that goddamned plane instead of feeling like he had to babysit me. He'd be back in L.A. right now, playing with his granddaughter._

Instead, as much as she wants to believe he would've found a way out of the ambush, he could very well be dead.

Because of her.

Overwhelmed with the urge to cry now, Renee releases a slow and shaky breath.

_I am so, so sorry, Jack,_ she says silently, her eyes briefly finding the ceiling.

She should've walked away from the whole damned situation the moment he walked through the conference room door. She should've walked away from the undercover op the moment he got involved. Or after the op failed. Or after they found Hassan murdered. She should've stopped herself from giving in to her need for him…

Hearing the door slide open, she blinks back the emotion that has crept into her eyes and glances up to see Cole Ortiz – who, at some point since she last saw him early this morning, has inexplicably changed from his black jeans and t-shirt into a dark suit and tie – returning with the cup of ice he'd gone to retrieve after she'd woken up. She wipes her cheeks as he turns to pull the curtain closed and the agent in the hall closes the door.

"You didn't have to do that, Cole," she says quietly, "I could've just asked Maggie the next time she came in."

"No big deal," he says, setting the cup down on the bedside table.

As he looks down at her, Renee senses he wants to say something more but he seems to hesitate and she doesn't press him. Instead, she shifts in the bed and tries to get to a point where she feels even half-way comfortable. She doesn't manage to achieve it before the damned cough interrupts her efforts. She presses her eyes closed and bears the explosion of pain.

"Are you okay?" she hears Cole ask, "Do you want me to -"

"For Christ's sake," she growls between coughs, "It's just a cough!"

As the coughing fit finally begins to fade, Renee realizes she just snapped at him for merely wanting to help. Grimacing, she opens her eyes to find him standing next to her, waiting, as if nothing happened. For some reason, that only irritates her more and she struggles to get past it.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles, "I'm just…" She stops and pinches the bridge of her nose, unable to find an excuse other than she still hurts, she's still tired and she's still angry and worried and _for the love of God_ why did they lie to Jack. "Sorry."

"Forget about it," he says and again, she fights another spark of irritation.

_Would it be so bad,_ she wants to ask, _if you all stopped trying so hard not to upset me? _

The mere question brings with it the reminder that there are_ reasons_ they're trying not to upset her and the thought only makes her miss Jack even more. She's pretty sure that by now, he'd have called her on her -

"Listen, Renee…" Cole says, abruptly bringing her attention back to him, "Chloe's going to be here in a minute. She wants to talk to you about Jack. But before she gets here, I've been wanting to say something."

Renee looks up at him warily, half-expecting him to blame her for Dana's death.

"Okay…"

"It's just that… I wanted to thank you."

"Thank me?" Renee scoffs, "For _what_? Biting your head off?"

Cole smirks. "For saving my life."

Blinking slowly, Renee looks back at him in tired confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"That night, if you hadn't shown up at the docks when you did… Well, both Jack and I probably would've been killed. Even with his plan to draw fire away from me, I was still in trouble the moment he went down. If you hadn't taken out those two shooters… Well, I didn't get the chance to thank you."

Renee lowers her gaze, feeling another flash of guilt at her sharp response to him a moment ago. Not for the first time in the past year and a half, she wishes she could just push stop and rewind on her reactions. Or for that matter, on her life.

"I'm just glad I got there in time," she says softly.

She looks back up at him, only now really noticing the bloodshot and slightly swollen eyes, only now finally registering just how much he looks like hell in his dark suit and tie.

"And I _am_ sorry, Cole," she goes on, "For snapping at you. But also about Dana. Chloe told me what happened. About her and the Russians. And Jack. I'm… sorry."

"Yeah," he says, averting his eyes, "Thanks."

She knows she should say more but she isn't sure of the words or whether it will help or just make things worse. Somehow, she's sure the old Renee Walker would've known what to say. For now, sensing his discomfort, she steers the topic away from Jack and Dana.

"And I guess I should really be thanking _you_. Chloe and Janis explained what you're doing here. You didn't have to agree to do this."

"It was the right thing to do."

"Still…"

_It can't be easy,_ she wants to say, _Especially after what happened with Dana and Jack. So thank you. _

But she doesn't.

"I'm surprised CTU can spare you for a protection detail," she says instead, "given what else must be going on."

His gaze drops and again she senses his discomfort. "I'm not working for CTU right now."

"You're not? But I thought Chloe said she -"

"I've been suspended, Renee," Cole states flatly. "I'm here on my own."

Renee presses her lips together in understanding. "I'm surprised they went that far with it. Dana fooled a lot of people. Not just you."

"It's not just about Dana," Cole admits with a shake of his head, "I…"

He pauses and Renee knits her brows together. Finally, he heaves a sigh.

"I helped Jack after you were shot. I helped him get to Dana. He said he just wanted the evidence that would expose the Russians. I didn't think he'd…"

His voice trails off and Renee gets the sense that, in spite of her intentions, she's saying all the wrong things and hitting topics she was trying to avoid.

"I'm sorry, Cole," she says quietly.

"Why? You didn't do it."

"Right." She looks away. She may not have held the gun, but it appears she may've been part of the reason it was aimed and fired.

Catching movement at the edge of her peripheral vision, Renee shifts her eyes back to the curtain across from her bed. The curtain doesn't quite reach the floor and through the glass just beyond it, she can see the black, soft leather shoes of the agent positioned outside her door.

She can also see that another set of shoes has just joined the FBI agent. They are black and low-heeled and one of them is tapping impatiently at the floor.

Frowning, Renee tilts her head back and tries to suppress the mushrooming desire to pull out all the tubes and escape this place as quickly as she can.

* * *

><p>Chloe hands her CTU ID to the FBI agent standing outside Renee's room. In spite of the fact that he's seen her face nearly every day for the last six days, the man carefully checks her name against the computerized list of names of people approved to enter the room then scrutinizes both her photo and her face.<p>

As she has ever other time she's gone through the process, she feels a blend of reassurance at his diligence and irritation at the delay. This time, that mix joins the undercurrent of nervousness that's been with her since Renee woke earlier this morning.

She rolls her eyes and huffs as the agent hands her back her ID. Then, she pushes past him, stepping into the room to find Cole moving away from the bed and Renee's eyes on her the moment she pulls back the curtain.

She pushes a small, hesitant smile onto her face. "Hey, Renee."

"Cole said you wanted to talk about Jack," Renee says, her expression guarded.

"Yeah."

Chloe steps over to the bed, shooting a quick glance at Cole, noting that he is still in the suit he wore to Dana's funeral a few hours ago. She'd taken the rest of the day off, thinking she and Janis could stay with Renee while he went home for a few hours after the service. He'd insisted on coming back here instead, claiming that at least here he feels like he's doing something worthwhile.

As he checks his laptop in the corner, she opens her mouth to give him the option again but quickly changes her mind and presses her lips into a frown. In all honesty, she's glad he'd declined the offer. She can aim and fire a gun when she needs to but Cole is clearly the better choice when it comes to protecting Renee.

"Chloe."

At Renee's quiet voice, Chloe turns back to her, easily noticing that the woman looks just as pale and exhausted and tense as she did a few hours ago. Maybe even more so, if that's possible.

She draws a breath, knowing that Renee is already angry at what's happened to Jack; she doesn't expect that to improve with what she still has to tell her.

"I do want to talk to you about Jack," she starts, her fingers fidgeting with the seam of her pant leg, "There's more you need to know."

Renee's eyes briefly flutter closed and she frowns as if bracing herself.

"I didn't get into it with Janis here because the full story hasn't been released and at this point, I don't think the FBI's told her so -"

"Just tell me, Chloe."

"Logan's men _did _get to Jack," she confirms again, "But we managed to track them down with one of our drones and we were able to patch President Taylor through. She called off the hit on Jack before they could kill him."

"So then…" Renee arches her brows. "Jack's not dead? You're sure about that?"

Picking up on the hope and relief in Renee, Chloe frowns, uncomfortable and worried. "No, I'm not."

"But you just -"

"I told you before, Renee," she says cautiously, "The last time _I_ saw him, Jack was alive. But that was days ago. When the president spoke with Jack, she said she was going to give him time to get out of the country because -"

"Both our people and the Russians are going to be hunting him down," Renee finishes for her, making the connection on her own. "Justice and retaliation."

Chloe nods. "Yes. Justice, retaliation and now, like with you, pre-emptive measures. Cole, Arlo and I manipulated what we could to give him time to get away. Tim Woods and the president did what they could on their ends, too. But I don't know that Jack made it out of the country before… Well, before someone found him."

Renee glances over at Cole with a slightly puzzled expression and Chloe pulls her brows together. She thinks Renee is about to say something but when she doesn't, she goes on.

"I didn't find out about you until after Jack disappeared, Renee," she explains quietly, drawing the woman's attention back to her, "Arlo and I have been working to find him ever since but there's been no sign of him."

Renee shifts her darkened eyes to the window. "After all he's done for this country," she mutters tightly with a slow shake of her head, "Jack's been exiled."

Chloe sighs and presses her mouth into a fine line at the painfully accurate statement. "Yeah."

For a long moment, the woman says nothing more and Chloe finds herself wondering what she's thinking. She glances at Cole, who merely arches his brows, mirroring her uncertainty.

"His family…" Renee finally says, her eyes still trained on the window, the question evident in her tone.

"Taken care of," Cole supplies.

"Jack knew they'd be targets, Renee," Chloe explains, "Cole and I have them covered for now."

Renee nods. "Good."

Again Renee falls silent and Chloe catches the muscles in the woman's jaw alternately tightening and relaxing. She knows Renee has to be fuming but there's something more going on under the surface; she just doesn't know her well enough to figure out what it is.

"Renee?" she prompts at last.

As if suddenly reminded she's not alone, Renee turns her head to look at her. "You said he was shot," she says too flatly, her tone and expression betraying nothing. "How bad was it?"

"It was a through and through to the left upper chest," Cole says now, stepping back over to the bed to join them, "No vital organs were hit and EMS stabilized him at the scene. They were taking him back to CTU Medical when Logan's men got to him."

Before Renee can respond she starts to cough sharply. While Chloe waits for the coughing to pass, she draws a deep breath of her own and presses her lips together for a moment, bracing herself for the woman's reaction to what she needs to say next. Again, she feels the curious blend of nervousness and irritation. She only hopes Renee will understand the position she'd been in when it all happened.

"Um… Renee?" she says quietly. When Renee looks back at her, Chloe drops her gaze to the white sheet covering the edge of the mattress, unable to meet her gaze. "I was the one who shot Jack."

In an instant, Chloe feels the weight of Renee's eyes on her.

"_What?"_ Renee exclaims, "_Why_? For Christ's sake, Chloe. Of all the people in the world…"

Chloe finally looks back at Renee to see that the anger she's been expecting to see has surfaced. She crosses her arms over her chest. "Jack didn't give me a choice," she says, feeling a surge of defensiveness, "He had his gun on me and -"

"Jack wouldn't have shot you," Renee cuts her off sharply, "I don't care what was going on. You_ know_ he wouldn't have. Jack…"

Renee hesitates now, as if suddenly unsure of herself.

"He wouldn't have killed you," she insists.

Chloe can't help but notice that in spite of the confidence in her voice, Renee has amended her statement. Apparently, Renee knows as well as she does that Jack would've done what he felt was necessary to achieve his goals.

"He threatened me that morning, Renee," she says softly, "He'd never done that before. And when I finally found him, he…"

Chloe pauses and shakes her head, recalling how Jack – _Jack_ – forced her against the wall and wrapped his hand around her throat; how he'd choked her into unconsciousness; how the look in his eyes, the expression on his face and what she heard in his voice made her realize that her chances of talking him down weren't nearly as good as she hoped; and how, after all that, she'd actually felt surprise along with the relief when he finally moved away from the rifle.

"The way he was going," she finishes softly, "I don't know. He was… different."

"Jack was out of control, Renee," Cole intercedes, coming to her defense, "Chloe was the only one who had a chance in hell of stopping him from taking Suvarov out."

Renee tosses a sharp glance at Cole and Chloe watches as the woman struggles to bite back whatever instinctive response is on the tip of her tongue.

"Once I managed to convince him not to kill Suvarov," she explains before Renee's effort at restraint can fail, "Jack made me promise I'd do what he said. He gave me the recording he had of Logan and Suvarov so I could distribute it but… He knew the order was shoot to kill, Renee. Our assault teams were seconds away. Jack said the only way I'd get past them with the evidence was if I shot him. I couldn't do it. But then he raised his gun to his head and I… I fired."

Renee closes her eyes and tilts her head back to rest against her pillow. The woman is silent for another uncomfortably long moment and Chloe feels the nervousness stirring again.

"I'm sorry, Renee," she says finally, and though she feels a flash of foolishness for apologizing for something she'd been forced into, she_ is_ sorry.

And she feels guilty.

Because no matter the circumstances, she'd shot her friend – shot Renee's… friend. And even though Taylor came clean and Jack seemed to make it out of the situation alive, she still feels like she failed him.

Finally, Renee opens her eyes but Chloe doesn't miss the fact that she doesn't actually look at her.

"You did what you had to do, Chloe," she says at last, her voice quiet. "But why were you even in the field?"

"Because I thought if I could find him before everyone else, I might be able to stop him before he got himself killed."

"Hastings went for that?" Renee asks in surprise.

"He didn't have a say. Division removed him after Hassan was assassinated. They replaced him with me."

Renee shifts her gaze to the curtain covering the glass door to her room. She coughs twice, wincing. For a brief moment, Chloe watches her struggle against the need to cough some more.

"So he's out there with a gunshot wound to the chest," Renee finally manages, "He would've needed some help with that…"

"It was more than just the gunshot wound," Cole points out.

Renee looks up at him, a flash of dread flittering over her features. "There's _more_?"

"Yeah," Cole nods grimly. "Somewhere along the line, Jack was stabbed. They say he was bleeding pretty heavily for a while."

Renee switches her gaze back to the curtain and again, Chloe has a hard time pinning down her expression.

"He was in pretty bad shape, Renee," Cole goes on, "I don't think he would've made it very long without some sort of medical help."

"But no clinic or emergency room reported anything that would raise any flags?"

"No," Chloe says quietly, finding Renee's eyes back on her.

"And you checked all the municipal cams? Bus stations and trains? Or what about -"

"We checked _everything_, Renee," Chloe interrupts with quiet frustration, "There's been a net around the city since that morning. There's nothing."

"Okay, what -" Renee starts only to stop abruptly.

Over the next few moments, Chloe is once again a witness to how uncomfortable the woman's breathing is as she squeezes her eyes shut against another coughing attack. This attack is deeper and much more prolonged than any she's seen from her so far and she exchanges a worried glance with Cole, who shakes his head as if he knows she's debating calling for help. Heeding his silent advice, she waits it out.

When the attack finally passes, Renee tilts her head back and tries to recover her breath. Chloe can see her eyes are wet and her jaw is trembling, from pain or anger or frustration, she isn't sure. But even through the muted groans and sharp grimaces, she can sense the woman is working with the information she's been given.

"What about Logan's men?" Renee finally manages, breathless, "Do they know anything about where he would've gone?"

"They were detained by the FBI immediately afterwards," Chloe replies, "But they haven't said anything. About anything."

Which is something Chloe is still grateful for. She just wonders how long their silence will last.

"I doubt they know where he went anyway," she adds.

Renee shakes her head, her jaw tightening.

"We haven't given up, Renee," Chloe assures her, "We're still manipulating what we can. And Arlo's constantly cross-accessing all the interagency servers, keeping an eye on their searches for Jack so we can use what they find for our own search. But we both know the longer -"

"Chloe, I need you to do something for me," Renee interrupts.

Chloe frowns, hesitant. Something in Renee's voice just now reminds her of Jack's voice when he's about to ask her to do something she probably isn't going to like. "What?"

"I need to see it all. Whatever CTU has on Jack. Video footage. Photos. All the reports filed. Everything you have on everything that happened after I was shot."

"Renee," Chloe starts, studying her with wary eyes, "We've already been through it all. There's no -"

"I know," Renee cuts her off tiredly. "I just… I need to put it all together in my head, okay? I need to make some sense of it."

"Renee," Cole steps in cautiously, "maybe you should wait until you're out of here for all that. I mean, you've been through a lot and this stuff is -"

"I wasn't shot in the head," Renee warns Cole with narrowed eyes.

Chloe tenses and glances at Cole. The last thing she wants is for things to escalate to a point where Renee's condition is adversely affected. "Renee, I -"

"Look," Cole interrupts, "I'm just saying, some of the stuff Jack did was pretty gruesome. And they keep telling us that stress isn't helping you out."

Renee closes her eyes and draws a slow breath before looking up at him, the look of determination on her face reassuringly familiar. "I can handle it." She pauses and turns back to Chloe. "Can you get it for me or not?"

"I can get it for you," Chloe replies after a quick glance at Cole, "but Cole's ri-"

"Please, Chloe," Renee says on a tight and weary sigh, "Just do it."


	19. Chapter 19

Thanks to those still reading and especially to those leaving their feedback. And as always, thanks to my awesome guinea pig Roadrunnerz!

Enjoy...

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 6<strong>_

_**05:37 pm**_

_**St. Andrew's Hospital, New York City**_

"You did great, Renee," Janis says as the physical therapist and the nurse draw the door closed and leave them alone.

Renee grimaces as she shifts in the bed. Clearly, she is unconvinced. She is also visibly exhausted.

When she doesn't acknowledge Janis' words and continues to avoid meeting her gaze, Janis shifts her eyes to the monitors, relieved to find that, in spite of all the exertion with the therapist, all the numbers seem about the same as when she woke up this morning.

For a moment, she finds herself debating whether she should try to broach the topic of Witness Protection right now or wait until Renee's had some more rest. And of course, finding a way to bring up the subject of how things stand between them is still on her agenda at some point, too.

Looking back down at Renee just in time to catch a soft groan and another wince passing on her face, Janis makes her decision.

"You should get some rest," she says quietly, "It's been a long day."

Janis watches as Renee closes her eyes without a reply. Not for the first time in the last eighteen months, she feels a spark of disappointment and sadness.

She's been feeling the awkward, uncomfortable tension between herself and Renee since her friend woke this morning and it feels like the distance and coolness has only grown as the day has gone on. This is the first time they've really been alone all day and Janis is still searching for a good day to address it all. Maybe by the time Renee wakes up next time, she'll have figured it out.

As the door slides open again, she looks up to see Cole returning from standing watch in the hall with the FBI agent while the therapist worked with Renee. He nods to her in silent greeting, glances at Renee and slips into his chair in the corner by the door.

Janis shifts her gaze back to Renee. In spite of the fact that she's sure she can't be asleep already, her closed eyes don't reveal even a flicker of curiosity about who's come into the room.

She watches Renee for a moment longer then finally presses her lips together, sighs quietly and reaches for her laptop.

Several minutes later, she's still staring unseeingly at her email, wishing she knew how to get her friend to talk to her, when she hears Renee's tired voice break the silence.

"Why are you here, Janis?"

Janis pulls her brows together and looks up from her laptop to find Renee watching her with weary and guarded eyes. "What?"

"Why are you here?" Renee repeats stiffly, "This is a New York operation."

Janis adjusts her glasses and draws a deep breath. Though Renee's tone just sounded disappointingly similar to Chloe's when Chloe had asked her the same question just a few days ago, she hopes this is the opening she's been waiting for.

"I was still at work the night you were called in to CTU," she starts cautiously. She glances at Cole to find him looking up from his laptop and though he already knows some of the story, Janis still wishes Renee had asked this before he returned. "I was there when they called Gordon with a request for your file. Then we heard they'd sent you undercover. I… I learned what happened the next morning – that you'd been shot and killed – and I couldn't believe it. Or I just didn't want to believe it. I dug deeper and figured out there was more to it."

"Never could get anything past you, right Janis?" Renee mumbles under her breath and glances away.

Janis frowns, easily picking up on the bitterness in her voice. _Maybe this isn't the right time after all_, she realizes sadly.

But then Renee sighs and shifts her gaze to her knees. "I'm sorry," she whispers, "that wasn't fair."

"It's okay," Janis says quietly.

"It's _not_ okay!" Renee counters angrily, her tired eyes suddenly sharp as they turn on her, "For Christ's sake, be honest! Stop treating me like I'm going to break!"

Janis looks back at Renee for a long moment, debating how to handle this. Finally, she closes her laptop and tucks her hair behind her ears.

"All right," she says simply, "I'll stop treating you like you're going to break. If you stop treating me like I'm the enemy."

Renee holds her gaze long enough for Janis to glimpse the discomfort in her eyes before she looks away again.

"How did you get here?" Renee asks once more.

_On a plane,_ Janis almost cracks.

Once upon a time, it would've been just the response to draw a grin out of Renee. Or, at the very least, a rolling of the eyes and a small smile. But that was before everything changed. So instead of responding with her natural sarcasm, Janis fiddles with the edge of her laptop and studies Renee's features.

Drawn.

Tight.

But the aloofness she's been sensing from her seems at least a little diminished now.

"Once I figured out what was going on," she replies finally, "I put in a request for a temporary transfer to assist."

"And they approved it?" Renee asks with just the faintest mix of curiosity and surprise.

"The SAC here wasn't happy. And part of me knows they accepted my offer to act as your medical proxy just to keep me quiet. But then they decided that I'd also be the one to brief you on the situation when you woke up."

Renee's jaw tightens further and she shifts her eyes to the curtain covered door as if picturing the agent beyond it. "Of course. Because it's easier if they have someone I know be a buffer. And god forbid the idiot who made such piss-poor decisions own up to them in person."

"I'm sure that had something to do with it, too," Janis agrees with a shrug, "But honestly, I didn't care why they accepted my request, Renee. I was just happy they did."

At that, Janis finds Renee's tired eyes back on her.

"Why?" she asks in a voice just above a whisper, her brow furrowed as if perplexed. "Why did you even offer, Janis? Why do you care? After everything..."

Her voice trails off as she glances at Cole as if suddenly registering his presence. Then she shakes her head and turns away.

Janis knits her brows together and resists the urge to reach for Renee's hand.

_Does she really not know the answer_? she wonders to herself.

"Because you're my friend, Renee," she says softly, "Even after what happened. And I thought… I thought you could use one in all of this."

Renee seems on the verge of saying something in response but with another glance at Cole she seems to think better of the urge and closes her eyes. When she speaks again, Janis is only mildly surprised to find she changes the subject.

"Who's in charge here?" she asks, "Who made the call? Masters?"

"No," Janis replies with a shake of her head. "Fred Masters retired two months ago. Richard Jackson is the SAC now."

"I want to see him."

Janis nods. She figured Renee would want to have a few words with him. "I'll let him know. But Renee… There are a few other things I need to discuss with you."

She doesn't miss the hesitation and reluctance in Renee as she exhales and her eyes drift closed. Nor does she miss the way her friend's body seems to sink into the mattress as if weighed down by some unseen force.

"I guess they can wait for now," she adds quietly and leans back in her chair. "Get some rest."


	20. Chapter 20

Apologies for the ridiculous delay in updating this.

And thanks to all of those still hanging in there with this story!

Enjoy...

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 6 <strong>_

_**08:14 pm**_

_**St. Andrew's Hospital, New York City**_

_I need to get out of here._

Sitting up in the hospital bed, Renee's eyes drift away from the window back to the small pieces of ice in the Styrofoam cup in front of her.

She'd managed to doze off after her brief conversation with Janis earlier; but that had lasted just over an hour before a nightmare startled her out of sleep. Though the dream itself dissolved the moment she opened her eyes, the panic and the sensation of being held down at the wrists had lingered just long enough to leave her disoriented, leading her to not only tear off the splint on her left wrist but also yank out the arterial line it had been protecting before anyone could stop her.

The result had been a bloody mess that had taken longer and required more effort than she would've expected to clean up. And, while she'd been more distressed by the nightmare than the sight of all the blood, it had shaken both Janis and Cole, who were in the room at the time and witnessed the whole disaster.

The little moving around she'd been forced to do to allow for the cleaning up had been nothing short of excruciating. On top of the rest of the pain she's been trying to grow accustomed to, another agonizing spasm had arisen deep in her back in the midst of it all. As it did this morning, it swiftly spread throughout her torso, making breathing impossible and causing her to wonder if the rapidly contracting muscles might eventually crush her heart and lungs in their powerful grip.

Once a tight, bulky dressing was in place on her wrist and everything, including herself, had been cleaned up, Jamie added a blood pressure cuff to her arm so they could continue to monitor her blood pressure. Then, having not missed – Renee's sure it was_ impossible _to miss – how painful all the movement was for her, Jamie hooked the multi-pronged IV in her neck up to a machine that dispenses pain medication for her on demand.

Finally, when all of the medical necessities had been addressed, Jamie came back in with a fresh cup of ice and, with a bright smile, announced that "dinner" had arrived. In the next instant, as if concerned that Renee hadn't gotten the humor of her remark, the woman proceeded to apologize for not bringing in something more substantial, explaining that it's still all the doctors will allow her to have.

It had taken a small, forced smile and a mumbled "that's okay" to get Jamie to leave her to the ice. What the nurse didn't get was that Renee hadn't cared. Not about the lack of real food. Not about the ice. Beyond the few chips she'd taken to wet her mouth and throat, she has no appetite for much of anything anyway – except maybe for sleep; and now that she's awake again, her brain seems intent on depriving her of that.

She pushes the button for the pain medication then absently pokes at the ice with her plastic spoon, her body hurting, her thoughts drifting relentlessly to Jack.

When Chloe first confessed that she'd shot him, Renee felt an immense stab of anger. After hearing the explanation behind it, however, she once again wished that she could've just filtered or delayed her response a little – at least until she had all the facts – because it became clear that Chloe is probably the only reason Jack's not dead.

As she's been considering it, she can practically picture it unfolding...

Various law enforcement officers closing in on Jack. Jack, desperate to get the evidence out, gives it to Chloe and orders her to shoot him, hoping that it won't be fatal, knowing it's the only way to get her out with the evidence, believing his chances are better with her than with the officers bearing down on him. Chloe refusing. Jack, turning the gun on himself, preferring that option to the one coming at him. Chloe, firing just to stop him from pulling the trigger.

The whole scenario makes her chest hurt in a way that has nothing to do with the chest tube or incision. And her anger and frustration only grow each time she goes over it – but at least now, the only emotion directed at Chloe O'Brian is one of immense gratitude.

She frowns, her eyes drifting closed for a moment as a realization sets in:

Chloe shot Jack to protect him, while she… _she_ had stabbed him. For reasons she can't even remember but also can't imagine were nearly as defensible. The wound hadn't appeared to still be bleeding that morning in his apartment – at least not as heavily as Cole described – but that doesn't mean something hadn't happened to open it up again, leaving him vulnerable to whatever he may have encountered the remainder of that day and beyond.

Of course, it's occurred to her that perhaps someone else had stabbed him, too. She hadn't even thought to ask Chloe or Cole at the time but even that scenario hasn't helped her feel any better.

Abandoning the spoon in the ice, she shifts her gaze to the window again, the urge to leave this place still rippling through her. Knowing that's not an option at the moment, she does her best to shove aside the guilt, worry and frustration to focus on Jack's situation.

_His injuries would've narrowed his options,_ she thinks to herself, _they had to have driven him to seek help._

Yet according to Chloe and Cole, no hospital or clinic has reported anything that would draw their attention. Sure, Jack could've taken a doctor or nurse by surprise and forced him or her to help him outside the realm of a medical facility, but by now, that person would've been reported missing or would've reported the incident. She's sure Chloe would be watching for something like that anyway – so would anyone else interested in tracking Jack down. Jack would've known that, too.

_There has to be something they've missed. _

_There has to be some alternative route out of the city he would've taken. Some other move he would've made. _

_There has to be _something_…_

She raises her hand to the side of her neck, finding the IV that's still connected to fluids and pain medication and antibiotics and whatever-the-hell-else they're giving her. Her fingers lightly trace around the edge of the dressing as she stares out at the building across the street and tries to think.

_You'd need medical attention and a quick escape. And you're the most resourceful man I know._

_What would you do, Jack? Where would you go?_

Time passes unnoticed by her as she considers it but whether she's just too tired or drugged up or overwhelmed or there just isn't another option, she comes up with nothing except the understanding that if Jack wanted out, he would've found a way.

For the lack of something better to do, she reaches for the spoon again. Twirling it in the ice, she catches a glimpse of the information on thin plastic hospital identification bracelet around her wrist. Her frown deepens. The last name isn't hers, of course.

And it just exposes another point of frustration.

On the edge of her vision, below the edge of the curtain across from her, she can see the black loafers of the agent positioned outside her door. Her gaze drifts toward them and again, she feels the anger stirring.

How much of what's happened could've been avoided had the Bureau just followed protocol and kept them all informed? If they had just made a few simple phone calls – even _one_ call – would Jack be here now instead of out there, a wounded fugitive being hunted by two nations? And how much of a difference would it have made with the president? Or would it have made any at all?

She doesn't even want to think of how this whole thing has affected the nation as a whole but she imagines Taylor's sudden resignation has brought with it its own massive set of issues to deal with there, too. And aside from the effect it will all have on the country's relationship with the IRK and the UN, God only knows what will happen to relations between the U.S. and Russia after what's gone down. In fact, part of her won't be at all surprised if there's a return to a level of paranoia and mistrust not seen between the two nations since the Cold War.

_What a fucking mess, _she silently declares again, her eyes still on the FBI agent's shoes.

It strikes her suddenly, the way their lives have all intersected again – hers, Jack's, President Taylor's – and how the result is so similar and yet so different than eighteen months ago. The consequences at the end of this particular junction are all the same as the last; it's just that the people dealing with those consequences have traded positions.

Rather than facing federal charges after destroying her professional career, she's in a hospital recovering from what should've been a fatal gunshot wound. Rather than being in a hospital recovering from a virus that should've killed _him_, Jack is a fugitive from the law and has lost his chance to spend the rest of his life with his family. And, rather than losing _her _family as a consequence of staying true to herself and the demands of her position, it looks as if President Taylor is going to be facing federal charges after destroying her professional career.

Each of them is paying a price again but of the three of them, the price Jack's paying feels so much heavier, somehow. To her, at least.

_There has to be a way to undo this… _

_This cannot stand..._

_There must be a way..._

Those thoughts spark her to wonder how long it'll be before Chloe comes back with the information she's asked for. First thing in the morning, she expects. Which is still not soon enough for her.

Out of nowhere now, a flash of memory surfaces unbidden – Jack's hand, warm and gentle, caressing her cheek.

The memory not only causes her emotions to stir but brings about an ache in her chest and it strikes her that she misses him in a way and with an intensity that remains inexplicable to her given the brief time she's actually spent with him.

She closes her eyes briefly, recalling the feel of his scars beneath her fingertips.

_Stop._

She draws a breath, holding it for a moment before releasing it, doing her best to ignore the accompanying pain. God, she wishes she could stay focused on one thing for a while; her thoughts are all over the map right now.

_Focus, dammit,_ she orders herself, _Focus, focus, focus._

Her thoughts stay with Jack's scars for a moment longer and inevitably her eyes drift to the familiar landmarks living beneath the bracelet on her wrist. As her attention lingers on them, a familiar sense of shame washes over her; the same shame she'd felt after discovering Jack's first message on her voicemail and with every message he'd left after that; the same shame that made a brief resurgence when he so gently took her hand and pushed up her sleeve to reveal the damage she had inflicted on herself.

As they have many times since they began to form, the scars remind her not only of one of the glaring differences between herself and Jack over the last year and a half but also one of the reasons she'd kept away.

Fight.

Even the briefest glance at his file would show that Jack Bauer has sacrificed far more than his country had a right to ask of him.

She's had more than the briefest glance, of course.

In truth, she'd studied his file diligently, wanting to know it inside and out before taking her case to Larry, knowing how he'd react to her suggestion to bring Jack into play in their hunt to find Tony Almeida.

She'd seen how much Jack had lost in the course of his career. He'd lost his wife to an act of murder and, she would learn at some point late that first day with him, his daughter to anger and distance. He'd been deceived by and lost his father and brother. He'd been betrayed by other people he trusted, other people he'd been close to. He'd lost friends.

He'd lost his freedom, for Christ's sake. Though the addendum to his file that held the details of his time in China had been restricted, she hadn't needed to see it to know that it couldn't have been anything short of hell.

Yet while it was clear from his file that Jack had suffered loss and endured pain in the most extreme ways, nowhere in his file could she recall _anything_ that indicated he'd tried to take his own life. Not in the midst of it all. Not in the wake of it all.

Other men she knows would've tucked tail and run home or curled up into a ball and sobbed after being exposed to the prion variant. Not Jack. Jack fought back, doing everything he could to bring those responsible – his friend Tony Almeida included – to justice.

In fact, despite having appeared to have accepted, maybe even been at peace with, dying from the prion variant, in the end, he battled to survive the stem cell transplant and the long months of recovery that followed.

Jack Bauer had fought hard for his life.

While she… _she_ had been far too eager to give hers up.

She'd been like him once, of course. Full of fight. But that was Before. Before the need to fight inexplicably abandoned her. Before her life fell apart. Before everything worth fighting for seemed to evaporate into thin air.

For months now, as she's struggled to salvage what she can of her self and her life, she's wondered how, after all he'd been through and all he'd lost, Jack managed to hold onto that instinctive need to fight and make it through.

She sighs, her deep frown tightening.

_Or maybe he's tried, too. How the hell would I know? _

After all, she's known him less than two days; that, and his CTU file are hardly enough to explain the whole of Jack Bauer to her…

* * *

><p>In the darkened on-call room down the hall from Renee's hospital room, Cole stares up at the ceiling and tries to blot the memory of Renee's blood-covered sheets from his mind's eye. It proves more difficult than he'd expected and unfortunately for him, the image his mind chooses to replace it with is that of Dana's coffin – an image that sets his mind back on a subject he's been trying to sort through off and on since Dana's funeral early this morning.<p>

Once the music, sermons and condolences were all done and her coffin was finally set in the ground, he'd stood alone at the edge of her grave.

Or rather, he _thought_ he was alone. Until someone broke the relative quiet around him.

"_I missed her."_

He hadn't needed to turn around to know from her voice that Ruth Scott was standing two steps behind him, just off to his side. He figured she probably had the kid on her hip because he detected the rustling of clothing and a change in her breathing as she adjusted the kid's weight. It surprised him that he hadn't caught her approach but before he could admonish himself, she continued.

"_I never got the chance to tell her that whenever she called. Her calls were always so quick, you know? And her visit? At Christmas? Wasn't long enough, neither. I was surprised she came really. Invited her every year but… Guess she musta missed me a bit too."_

Cole had smirked at the mention of the visit Dana had paid her around Christmas. It had been another lie he'd bought without thinking it could be anything less than the truth. Another lie he was finding out about long after it was told.

Dana had told_ him_ the out of town trip that suddenly popped up just a few days before the holiday was for a surprise bachelorette party for a college friend. And the flight was supposed to be to Vegas, not Arkansas. When he offered to finagle time off to go with her, she laughed and reminded him that "bachelorette party" meant it was just for the girls. Then she kissed him and told him to save his finagling for their own wedding and honeymoon.

He'd tried for the time off anyway, deciding he'd spend his time at the pool and in the casinos, but it hadn't worked out.

He wondered, in those moments as he stood at the edge of her grave with her sister, what Dana would've done had he surprised her by getting the days off. Then he wondered if she'd done some finagling of her own to make sure that didn't happen.

He snorts. He knows now, things with Dana, they'd been too easy, gone too smoothly, too perfectly.

"That should've been my first clue," he mumbles to himself. But hindsight is always 20/20.

The questions start to come again; questions he's been asking himself for nearly a week now

How long would it have lasted? How long would the lies have gone on without him realizing that's what they were? How many more lies did he have to look forward to having surface in front of him? Would she ever have gotten caught had it not been for Kevin Wade or Jack Bauer?

"_She told me a little about you though," Ruth had gone on, "Didn't give me your name or nothin', just said she'd been seein' someone special for a while. That you were gettin' married."_

He'd stared at the coffin as Ruth told him about their lousy parents and how Jenny – _Dana_ – had fallen in with the wrong crowd when she was a teenager. How she'd been convicted of accessory to murder and grand theft auto and served five years. How when she got out, she had nothing.

"…_just a kid when she went away, Cole. A stupid, stupid kid who pulled some stupid, stupid shit. We both were. And our parents? They didn't care about nothin' that didn't involve a bottle of booze or a bag of whatever drug they could get their hands on..."_

Dana had given him that excuse, too. _"I was a kid…"_ The parent line was new but that still doesn't seem enough to excuse the lies. Dana was an _adult_ when she made the decision to hook up with the Russians. She was an _adult _when she plotted out the lies.

"_I think she just wanted to make a new life for herself. Believe me, there wasn't nothin' waitin' for her back in Rock Springs 'cept more of the same shit we grew up with…"_

She'd wanted a fresh start. She had no idea what she was getting into. Yeah, Dana had told him all of that, too. She could've said no. She could've walked away. She could've walked away even after she agreed. She could've walked away from him, too. Instead, she dragged him into it. She'd used him. Manipulated and lied to him.

"_She loved you, Cole. I could tell. There was somethin' different about her at Christmas. And I could hear it in her voice when we talked on the phone. But… I think she was afraid she was going to lose you. Jenny wasn't perfect, Cole, but she loved you. Whatever else you want to believe, believe that."_

He'd stood there and listened but he remained silent. Because he didn't know what to say. Didn't know what Ruth_ expected_ him to say. But before she left, she shared one more thing.

"_I wouldn't mind gettin' to know the woman you fell in love with someday. I'd like to know that part of my sister. One day. When you're ready. Wouldn't mind getting' to know the man she loved, neither." _

She'd walked away then. Without a single word from him.

With a sigh, Cole closes his eyes and rolls over on the thin mattress, intent on trying to get some sleep before his alarm goes off and he returns to Renee's room.

"_She loved you, Cole... Whatever else you want to believe, believe that…"_

That would be so much nicer to believe than what he knows is true, that it was a lie from the start. So much nicer. But as he closes his eyes, he knows it would just be another lie.

And this time, it would be a lie he'd be selling to himself.

* * *

><p><em>Focus, dammit!<em>

Instead, increasingly agitated, Renee shifts on the mattress and presses the button that will feed more of the pain medication into her IV line. In spite of the narcotics, the pain from the surgery and chest tube remains sharply uncomfortable. The tingling in her hips and legs is grating and she wishes it would just go away. The hospital gown is ill-fitting and scratchy against her skin. The oxygen tubing in her nose is irritating. And, on top of all that, her back has begun to ache. She can't decide if it's from the crappy bed, something related to the swelling near her spine or just all the tension that's building up but it's only adding to her misery.

In another effort to get comfortable, she leans forward just enough to rest an elbow on the bedside table that Jamie moved over her lap before she left. The movement briefly escalates the pain and, in turn, her irritation. She draws a frustrated breath and it sparks a cough. Unable to bite it all back, a groan escapes her control.

"You okay?" Janis asks quietly.

"Fine," Renee grumbles, the lie coming automatically as she leans the side of her head against her fist and stares down at the cup of ice.

The question feeds her annoyance. Beyond the redundancy of it, it only serves to remind her of all the ways and reasons she's _not_ fine.

The constant babysitting isn't helping her mood either.

It's only been a few hours but already, having someone constantly around is starting to get on her nerves, reminding her of the last time she was in a hospital, under constant supervision and scrutiny. Right now, it would be nice to have five minutes alone. To feel. To throw something. To breakdown and cry. To just be.

_Without an audience. _

While Cole_ finally_ left to get some sleep after the arterial line fiasco, the agent parked outside her door remains, as does Janis. And of the three, it's Janis' presence that has felt the most unnerving. All because of guilt and embarrassment and a slew of other emotions mixed up with events in the past.

She's tried to make more of an effort to push the discomfort down since Janis' comment about treating her like the enemy but she knows they're still avoiding the issue.

_No. _

_Issues. _

_Plural._

On the periphery of her vision, she can see the woman sitting by the door has her attention focused on some book Renee can't quite see the cover of and hasn't bothered asking about. She can also see Janis is worn out. Yet she hasn't complained once. Not about being tired. Not about the strain and distance between them. After what she put her through a year and a half ago and her behavior in the months that have followed, she still doesn't understand why Janis would care, much less want to be here at her bedside.

Even as she wonders about that, she recalls Janis saying there are still things they need to discuss.

She imagines battling for the number one spot on Janis' list is probably what happened between them in that observation room and what she did to Alan Wilson.

Topic number three? Well…

At one point after she'd pulled out the arterial line and the blood was flowing freely from her wrist, she'd caught a glimpse of Janis' face. She knows her reaction had less to do with the present than with the past.

Part of her wants to just let it go, to leave it all unaddressed until she manages to recover enough that she can get the hell out of here and leave Janis to go back to D.C.

Part of her wants to push the issue and force a confrontation if for no other reason than an argument might help release the restless and uncomfortable feeling flowing through her right now.

The largest part of her just wants to escape this whole damned situation altogether.

She lifts a hand to tug at the neck of her gown, tugging it forward in the hope that maybe it won't feel so confining.

It doesn't help.

_God, I need to get the hell out of here…_

She shifts in the bed again and glances at the clock on the wall. It doesn't seem to have moved at all since the last time she checked it.

Her mind drifts to Jack again. Then to the FBI. And then to the pain in her back and her torso.

She goes through the process of commanding her toes and feet and legs to move once more, incorporating a few exercises the physical therapist has given her to try.

Finally, a few long moments later, she pushes the cup of ice aside and shifts her tired eyes to look at Janis. Then, for reasons she can't explain to herself, she opens the door.

"Why did you come to my home that night?" she asks flatly.

Janis looks up from her book and Renee can read relief mixing with uncertainty in her face.

She doesn't need to specify which night. They both know what she's talking about.

"I came to drop off a few of Larry's things from the office," Janis replies simply.

Unable to continue meeting Janis' gaze, Renee shifts her gaze back to the white plastic spoon where it sticks out of the ice. She bites down on the inside of her lower lip. Hard.

The box of Larry's things.

When she'd finally come home from the hospital, she'd found the small box sitting next to a stack of larger boxes filled with brand new dinnerware and cookware in the kitchen that, aside from the lack of dishes in the cupboards, betrayed no hint of what had taken place the last time she was there.

There had been no note. No explanation.

She wasn't sure who'd cleaned up the mess or where the boxes came from; nor had she cared enough to ask. It hadn't really mattered, anyway. The moment she recognized that the items in one of the boxes belonged to Larry, the new dishes quickly met the same end as her previous set – save for the slicing of skin.

"I knew you'd want them," she hears Janis go on, "And I knew he'dwant you to have them. But mostly, that was to get my foot in the door. I… I was worried about you, Renee. I'd been worried for _weeks_. I missed you and I wanted to talk to you but you'd been ignoring my calls."

Renee says nothing, her eyes unwavering from the spoon. She'd changed her number in the aftermath of the Wilson crap for a reason. She hadn't wanted to talk to anyone. She hadn't wanted to see anyone. She wanted to be left alone.

And she was.

By everyone but Janis.

Janis and Jack.

Janis had begun calling before she'd gotten around to changing her number but even after she managed to do that, both she and Jack had hunted down her new one and kept calling. Even after she escaped to New York. In fact, Janis' last message had been left on her voicemail just two weeks ago. Jack's… Well, it had been longer than that since his last message but she hadn't expected he'd be contacting her again.

She arches her brows. _But that was before all this happened…_

"I tried calling you that night," Janis goes on, evidently taking her silence as permission to continue, "but your cell went straight to voicemail."

_It was off,_ Renee almost says. She'd shut it off two days before and left it charging on the nightstand by her bed.

She'd had enough of lawyers and the Bureau psychiatrist.

She'd had enough of everything.

Janis closes her book and leans forward in her chair. "When you didn't answer again…" she says softly, "I don't know. I just picked up the box and I got in my car. I didn't expect…"

Feeling Janis' steady gaze on her, Renee closes her eyes and swallows hard. The exhaustion is starting to hit full force now and the guilt and unease she's been feeling all day around Janis has only grown in the last few moments, adding to her desire to sink into complete nothingness again.

She pushes the button for the pain medication again only to hear the trilling sound that tells her it's too soon for another dose.

She shouldn't have started this conversation. She should've listened to the part of herself that wanted to avoid it. She should've just left it alone.

"When I found you, Renee… I was so scared. There was so much blood. And you looked… God, I was so afraid you had succeeded."

That last word rings in her head, automatically triggering another, more freshly familiar one to ring in her head.

_Failure._

Pushing it away, Renee opens her eyes to stare at the rim of the cup in front of her.

A doctor told her at some point in the wake of that night that if Janis hadn't gotten there when she did, she probably wouldn't have survived. She remembers asking if she was supposed to feel grateful to her for that. It hadn't taken her long to realize that yes, in fact, according to the hospital staff, she _was_ supposed to be grateful.

Of course, it had taken her much, much longer to actually _feel_ grateful. And there are still those moments and those days…

"I tried to see you afterwards," Janis goes on. "In the hospital. And I tried to call."

Finally, Renee finds her voice again; it comes in a whisper. "I know."

"I've kept calling, hoping you'd eventually get sick enough of my messages to pick up. I mean, I understand if you're angry with me for finding you and call-"

"I'm not angry with you, Janis," Renee manages softly, her gaze drifting in Janis' direction, stopping at the edge of the narrow bedside table between them. She blinks slowly, her eyes heavy. "I was… in the beginning. But not anymore. I just… I've just…"

_Been too embarrassed,_ she admits silently, _Too stubborn. And guilty. I haven't drummed up the nerve._

She closes her eyes once more.

_You saved my life that night,_ she wants to say, _I know that._

But she can't quite seem to get her mouth to form the words before Janis goes on.

"Renee…" Janis pauses and draws a breath as if to brace herself for Renee's response.

Renee tilts her head to look at her, surprised to find that Janis is suddenly standing right beside her. Again, she falls short of actually meeting the woman's eyes.

"I want you to know that _I'm_ glad I did it. And I'm so glad you've made it through all of this, too."

Renee shifts the fist she's been propping her head against, opening it to cradle her forehead in her palm. "I'm sorry," she says, her voice quiet, "I'm sorry you found me."

"I figured that," Janis nods then gives her a small shrug, "I figured that's why you wouldn't answer my calls or see me. And why even now you've been -"

"No, Janis," Renee cuts her off, "I'm sorry _you_ found me. I'm sorry you were the one. I didn't think… I didn't think it would be someone I knew."

She swallows, her gaze drifting back to the spoon sticking out of the ice. She hadn't expected anyone to find her so soon. And she sure as hell hadn't expected she'd have to deal with the fact that she wasn't dead after all. She hadn't expected… the failure.

But at that point, she probably should have.

"It couldn't have been easy for you," she acknowledges.

"I just wish…"

From the corner of her eye, Renee sees Janis tuck her dark hair behind her ears.

"I just wish I could've been there before that, Renee. Maybe I could've helped. Maybe I could've stopped it from getting to that point."

Exhaling, Renee shakes her head. _God, Janis feels guilty and she didn't even do anything wrong._

"Probably not," she mumbles.

"Renee…"

In the next moment, Renee is startled at a warm weight on her hand as Janis' hand covers hers.

"I'd like it if we could be friends again," the woman says with a gentle squeeze, "I've missed you."

Renee tilts her head in her palm and finally meets Janis' gaze. Hope and honesty fill the familiar dark eyes behind the glasses. No judgment. No recrimination. No resentment.

_I've missed you too_, she wants to say, only now realizing just how true that is. But the words don't come.

Instead, she closes her eyes and turns away again. It's in this moment that an understanding that began setting in the moment she saw Jack at CTU – an understanding that only seemed more and more clear as the hours she spent with him passed – sinks in even further:

All these days and weeks and months, she's wanted to be left alone. And she had been.

By everyone but Janis and Jack.

Everyone else had taken the hint and had given her what she so clearly wanted. But maybe, just maybe, it hadn't been what she _needed._

Janis and Jack both seemed to understand that.

Even if she hadn't.

Tears rise to squeeze her throat.

"I'm so tired, Janis," she breathes.

_Tired and angry and frustrated and worried and…_

"I know," she hears Janis reply softly and again, she feels the gentle pressure of Janis's hand squeezing hers. "We don't have to talk right now. Maybe later, if you're up to it. And there are other things we need to talk about, too. But right now, you need to sleep."

Eyes still closed, Renee leans back in the bed. She feels her entire body rebel at the change of position and she pushes the button for the pain medication again.

Tears pool beneath her eyelids as the storm of emotions and thoughts continues its ebb and flow. But for the first time since waking up in this bed, she isn't completely dreading having Janis there when she opens her eyes.


	21. Chapter 21

_**March 7 **_

_**03:03 am**_

_**St. Andrew's Hospital, New York City**_

As another prolonged coughing episode comes to an end, Renee groans softly at the sharp pain in her chest and abdomen that refuses to let her go. Her jaw is shaking so hard from the discomfort now that she can feel her teeth lightly chattering. In an effort to ease it, she draws her lips between her teeth and bites down, then presses the button for what feels like the hundredth time in the last few minutes.

At this point, however, part of her wonders if the machine delivering the pain medication is empty or if it's even working anymore. Whatever the problem, she's painfully uncomfortable again.

"You really should try to get some sleep, Renee," she hears Cole comment from his chair near the window.

_Easy for you to say_, she counters silently, one hand still clutching the sheet while the other rests over her abdomen, tightly gripping the button that's supposed to trigger the doses of pain medication.

"Yeah," she breathes finally, attempting to focus on the increasingly blurring images drifting along on the TV hanging from the ceiling in the corner of the room.

She's been awake for a while now, having been driven from sleep by a dream too vivid and disturbing to allow her to easily doze off again. When she finally gave up the effort, she resorted to using the television to distract herself. From the dream. From the pain and the restlessness. From thinking about everything that's happened since she went in to CTU. Hell, from thinking about everything that's happened in the past eighteen months.

From thinking about Jack.

From _worrying_ about Jack.

Mostly, she's been failing miserably. On all fronts.

She watches another few moments of the cable news program with the same disgust and anger that's been filtering through her since she turned on the TV then finally shuts it off, plunging the room into a state of semi-darkness lit only by the faintly glowing screens of the various medical machines and Cole's small laptop.

For the hour and forty-eight minutes she managed to stomach watching the various news programs, two things have been consistently clear: the press is having a field day and the political sharks are circling as another American presidency ends in disgrace.

A week after it happened, every cable news network remains obsessed with the shocking downfall of President Allison Taylor. She'd think that after this much time, they'd have exhausted the subject but if they have, they're clearly enjoying rehashing it. With Congress still debating the value of investigative hearings and with the AG reportedly close to filing official charges against her, the political pundits have been busy analyzing the situation to death.

If they weren't lambasting Taylor for her reported attempt to censor the press, they were discussing how she'd participated in a conspiracy or arguing the implications of her connection to Charles Logan. And of course, depending on the side of the fence the particular talking head was on, they were either declaring Taylor's actions a matter of "national security," "international safety and interests," and "greater good" or they were calling for her head.

Some argued that with the need to ease tensions with other countries, invoking a special prosecutor might appease them. Some countered that Taylor should be pardoned by Hayworth, claiming the treaty was ultimately more important than something that had already happened and was out of her control – a point to which still others responded with the declaration that a treaty built on murder and lies wasn't worth the paper it was printed on.

The global implications of what's happened with the Russians and Hassan had also been generously displayed.

When they weren't obsessing over Taylor, most of the commentators seemed to be concentrating on the accusations against Suvarov and the repercussions that may result if his guilt – or innocence, as some pointed out – in Hassan's assassination is proven.

On one channel, she'd found a discussion about Dahlia Hassan's complaint to the UN and her claim that Taylor threatened her nation with a military strike if she didn't go through with the signing of the treaty.

As much as she'd liked what little she'd seen of her a week ago, she finds she doesn't envy Dahlia Hassan. On top of mourning her husband, the woman's first days as Acting President of the IRK have, it seems, been a trial by fire.

At least one station had been covering a protest-turned-riot that had erupted in the capital of the IRK earlier in the day. From the sound of things, it was far from the first of its kind in the last week.

Renee imagines it won't be the last, either.

The IRK isn't the only place where emotions are running high, of course. As she'd expect, the situation has stirred up demonstrations in the Russian Federation as well. And from what little she saw, the anti-American slogans there far outnumbered anti-IRK chants.

Apparently, there have also been marches and protests taking place in a number of American cities for days now. Spearheaded by members of various political groups, most of those gatherings appear to have been relatively peaceful but more than one has threatened to get out of hand and required riot police to be standing by. If the protests and marches continue, she imagines that things will eventually grow more and more disruptive.

Several channels also made mention in some way of how the UN is dealing with – or not dealing with – the situation. While they're "gravely concerned" and are "actively investigating" things on their own, they continue to wait to see how the three countries involved handle the situation on their ends before taking action themselves. That topic led one channel's political panel to a discussion on the UN's Security Council and a debate over the U.S. position on the International Criminal Court – a position, ironically, that President Taylor had been set on trying to change, if not reverse altogether.

On one station, Renee found someone talking about how the whole affair may have contributed to the untimely death of Secretary of State Ethan Kanin – yet another event that's taken place in the wake of her shooting that she'd been unaware of.

And somewhere in the midst of channel flipping, she'd caught a glimpse of Mitchell Hayworth, Taylor's successor, blatantly distancing himself from the whole situation. From what she recalls of him during Juma's siege on the White House eighteen months ago, she hadn't been impressed with the man.

The clip of him she's seen tonight hasn't changed her opinion.

She shifts a little on the mattress, her gaze drifting aimlessly in the darkness.

There has been no mention of Jack on what news segments she's seen, which surprises her. Nor was there mention of the fact that Taylor sanctioned a hit on a U.S. citizen; a citizen who had not only saved the former-First Gentleman's life but the president herself; a citizen who, over the years, has saved _countless_ lives and God, nearly died himself while stopping the prion virus from being unleashed on innocent Americans all those months ago; a citizen who has not only been exiled from the country he's fought so hard for but has also been forced to abandon the family he's only recently regained.

_That's the fleeting nature of gratitude for you_, she thinks angrily.

Renee knows it might be viewed as irrational, emotional or self-serving but of all the things President Taylor's accused of doing, it's that offense – sanctioning Jack's death – she'd most like to see the woman punished for.

Not for the first time since learning what's happened to him, she feels the anger and sadness and guilt weighing on her. Not for the first time since learning what's happened to him, she tries to swallow the emotions down.

_I'm so sorry, Jack,_ she tells him silently, _You didn't deserve any of this. You deserve…_ Her thoughts briefly flitter back to those first moments with him in the CTU conference room. How relaxed he looked then. _You deserve to be with your family. You deserve peace._

Instead – and in spite of her self-imposed directive to stay away so whatever peace he'd achieved in the wake of his stem cell transplant could remain undisturbed – Jack has gotten anything but peace.

She shifts her shoulders and tries to adjust her hips again in an effort to get comfortable. Then she tugs at the oxygen tubing beneath her chin, tempted for a moment, to remove it completely so at least the itching in her nose will stop. But she leaves it in place. The last time she gave in to the impulse, she'd had the oxygen off for less than a minute before one of the alarms behind her began to blare and the nurse came in to reprimand her. She neither wants nor needs a repeat of that right now.

So instead she starts to fidget with the oxygen tubing draped across her abdomen with one hand while her other hand squeezes the button for the pain meds again. Too soon. Again.

"Need anything?" Cole's voice breaks the silence.

"No," she says quietly, adding as an afterthought, "Thanks."

In all honesty, however, the list of things she needs seems ever growing.

At the top of that list of things is Jack. Here. Now.

Barring that, she'd take the ability to escape this place. Or a simple turning back of the clock. The chance to somehow make it all right again, to undo the damage that's been done since she answered that damned call from CTU. In fact, she'd even turn the clock back beyond that, if she could just manage it.

She'd also settle for a nice little visit with President Taylor.

Renee frowns as her thoughts linger on the president again.

Before their brief encounter a week ago, the last time she'd seen or spoken to the woman was the day she was released from DOJ custody.

It was also the day she found out Jack hadn't succumbed to the prion variant.

The Attorney General's office had taken their time trying to figure out what to do with her and she'd spent almost a full week in custody before they made their decision. In that time, she sat through interview after interview after interview and had been required to undergo both a complete medical examination and a comprehensive psychiatric evaluation.

Part of her knew the DOJ had their hands full dealing with the aftermath of everything that had happened; that they were busy with the likes of Tanner and Wilson, Sean Hillinger, Tony Almeida and, she'd overheard, Olivia Taylor. They were but a few among many, many others who had, in some way or another, participated in the events of the day. After all, the list Jack managed to cut out of Dubaku was not exactly short.

But part of her also decided that they were merely letting her stew in what she'd done. Which might have worked had she been capable of stewing about that or much of anything else in her time there. The cold numbness that began nearly a week before had established a firm grip on her by that point.

She'd done everything she could to stop Wilson and his fellow conspirators. She'd given the Bureau the information she'd obtained. The rest was up to them.

She was _done_.

On more than one level.

When she'd been brought to a small conference room on the evening of what wound up being her final day in detention, she expected it would be yet another interview about Tanner or Wilson. Or perhaps Tony Almeida again.

She hadn't anticipated walking in to find President Taylor standing there. Waiting for her. Alone.

The president started by sitting across from her at the conference table but soon rose to her feet again and began pacing as she launched into a harsh lecture. All Renee could do was sit there and endure the scathing dressing down.

That sharp reprimand was one of a very few things that penetrated the detachment blanketing her in those early days. For the last eighteen months, she's wished it hadn't.

As she considers it now, she understands that perhaps that's why what the president said to her a week ago had the effect it had. But she also wonders if she'd known how things were going to turn out – that the president was going to participate in a Russian cover-up and sanction Jack's death – if either interaction would've carried the same weight.

Throughout most of the meeting, Renee followed the woman's shifting reflection in the glossy surface of the conference table, responding with an occasional "yes, Ma'am" or "no, Madam President."

But there came a point when the president had finally stopped pacing and fallen silent. She stood there gripping the thickly padded back of a chair, anger and disappointment evidently spent, and she studied Renee with weary blue eyes that seemed to have aged years in the days since Renee had last seen her. Renee had gotten the sense that the president was waiting for her to respond with more than a simple yes or no or for her to apologize or otherwise explain herself and her actions.

Instead, Renee had looked up at the woman standing across from her and asked the only question whose answer seemed even vaguely important at the time.

"_Will I be allowed to go to their funerals?"_

Taylor had seemed thrown by the abrupt off-topic question. _"Whose funerals, Agent Walker?"_

"_Agent Moss' and… Jack Bauer's."_

She can't recall now, just how she found out, but she'd known Larry's funeral was slated for the next day. There had been some sort of delay in scheduling it because of his ex-wife's desire to make it an elaborate, public affair – something Renee knew Larry would've hated. His ex-wife would've known it too, so she supposed that said a lot right there.

Jack's service on the other hand… she had no idea. She had known how unlikely it was that he would've still been lingering on at that point. A day. Maybe two. That was all he had left. His funeral should have been coming up, as well.

For her part, President Taylor had pulled her brows together and, for the first time since Renee walked into the room, the woman's voice and expression softened with a mix of sadness and surprise.

"_No one's told you…"_

Though both Jack and Larry had been on her mind much of her time in detention, it was the first time since she watched the paramedics wheel him away that she'd actually even mentioned the name Jack Bauer out loud.

She hadn't wanted to know how bad it was for him in the end. She hadn't wanted to know if it was a final seizure that took him; or if the spasms wound up snapping his spine in two; or if the disease eventually targeted his heart and lungs or any number of other horrible ways it could've taken him.

She didn't need those mental images haunting her the way Larry's bloody and lifeless face had already begun to do, following her into what sleep she managed to get.

She just wanted to spend a few moments at their graves. To say one final farewell to a man who had not only been her boss and mentor but also her best friend; a man she considered to be her family; a man who had helped her in ways and on levels he'd never really known. And to say good-bye to a man she'd known only a day yet felt an attachment to that she couldn't define; a man who'd made an impression on her psyche that she didn't understand except to know that it was indelible and that somewhere beneath the numbness, she already missed him – more than should've been possible.

"_Told me what?"_

"_Agent Walker… Jack Bauer's not dead."_

With that, Taylor told her of Kim Bauer's decision to proceed with the stem cell transplant after Jack was no longer able to stop her. Though he was still in a coma and though the course of treatment would be long and complicated and his recovery, full or otherwise, was far from certain, the president had been informed that, one week into it, Jack was at least holding his own.

If she could have at that point, Renee probably would've cried with relief or laughed at the irony of that situation. After all, Jack was still alive – but only because the daughter he'd so adamantly insisted not be involved had proven to be just as stubborn as he was. As it was, the news merely brought forth a sigh of gratitude. Beyond that initial sentiment, learning that Jack had survived to that point barely managed to stir any semblance of significant emotion in her. At the time, anyway.

In fact, not counting the brief waves of grief and anger she felt every time she woke up from a dream in which Larry and Jack found their way into, the president's reprimand and her revelation about Jack had generated the only real emotion she can recall feeling in the immediate aftermath of that day.

So when Taylor finally pushed a manila envelope across the table and began explaining the documents inside, Renee merely stared at it. Without a single spark of curiosity.

As it turned out, for all her lecturing and overt displeasure, the president had apparently gone to bat for her. A token of her personal gratitude for helping save her husband's life. A token of the country's gratitude for all the good work she'd done up to and including that day.

All she had to do, the president explained, was sign the documents and it would be over.

No charges would be brought against her. Her file would state that she had resigned and would otherwise remain sealed. The details of what she had done to Tanner and Wilson would not be released by the Bureau. There would be no further detention, no federal prison time, only a period of probation – the length and terms of which would be determined by the Attorney General.

In return, she was expected to be available to provide testimony and assistance in any legal proceedings undertaken against the other various defendants – most notably, Tony Almeida – should it be required.

She would also have to participate in the mandatory grief counseling offered by the FBI for a period of time to be determined by the Bureau's appointed psychiatrist. And she'd have to adhere to any recommendations for further counseling should it be deemed necessary.

All she had to do was sign her name.

And she had.

With effortless scribbles of black ink on three separate documents, she surrendered not only her career but the life she had worked so hard for so long to build for herself.

And she'd done it without a fight.

Without so much as a flicker of a _need_ to fight.

She hadn't tried to fight the potential charges. Hadn't tried to fight for her job. Hadn't tried to fight for her self or her reputation.

That understanding has been eating away at her ever since.

She shifts again in the bed, increasingly uncomfortable on the mattress, in her hospital gown, in her own skin. She tries closing her eyes but she already knows she won't be sleeping anytime soon.

She recognizes this path she's on. She's been here too many times not to know it.

She's thinking too much. Again. She's spending too much time inside her own head – a pattern she seems to have unintentionally fallen into at some point during the past eighteen months. Once her brain starts on this path, it seems to dig in and, as the scars on her wrist now attest, it's a habit that doesn't necessarily always end well for her.

Tonight is apparently going to be no different because regardless of what she wants, her mind keeps going, rehashing things she's rehashed countless times over the last year and a half. And it isn't long before her thoughts return to Larry.

Though she'd asked President Taylor about his funeral, and though she was released from custody the night before it took place, she hadn't attended.

She'd _planned_ to go. She'd showered and dressed, done her hair and her makeup – all, on autopilot. It wasn't until she climbed into her SUV, her fingers about to turn the key in the ignition that she froze.

She could – and has tried to – chalk it up to grief or panic or embarrassment. After all, Larry was dead. If seeing his blood-covered body on that gurney wasn't enough to drive that reality home, attending his funeral certainly would.

And she knew so many of those who would be in attendance. Friends and colleagues would be there to support one another in their collective grief. She'd practically felt the weight of their stares even as she sat behind the wheel of her car. Could almost hear the whispers that would be rippling through the crowd as they spotted her. A week prior, she'd have stood there anyway, self-assured and flipping a mental finger to anyone and everyone who dared look at her sideways.

But that was Before.

So instead of turning the key in the ignition, she'd dropped her head to rest against the steering wheel and closed her eyes.

The next thing she knew, she was waking up curled up on the floor next to her toilet with a raging headache, a stomach and throat that felt like they were sitting in a vat of churning acid and a nearly-empty bottle of liquor on the floor next to her.

Looking back, as she's done too many times, she knows now that it hadn't been sadness or grief that stopped her from turning the key and backing out of her garage. Nor was it panic, fear or embarrassment.

It was the lack of what should've been there to drive her past it all. It was the lack of Fight.

She hadn't made it to Larry's funeral – hadn't even managed to really cry for him until weeks later – but she managed to drink herself into unconsciousness.

It was just one more failure paving the road she's been on ever since the day she lost everything that seemed to matter.

_I owed you so much more than that_, she admits to Larry. "So much more."

"What?"

Renee opens her eyes. For a few minutes there, she'd forgotten she had a babysitter.

"Nothing," she mutters, wiping at the few tears that have managed to escape her control.

She pushes a button to adjust the head of the bed, lowering it. Instantly, she feels the muscles in her torso pull and she stops the movement. Even that little bit of movement hurts too much.

Unfortunately, the pain isn't enough to interrupt her brain and its deliberations and it continues down its path…

She hadn't made it to Larry's funeral, but twice she had managed to try to see Jack – which might've be felt like a slight to Larry if she hadn't failed at it like everything else at that point.

The first attempt had been a week or so after Larry's service.

The numbness cloaking her in the wake of the Wilson interrogation had just started to lift and the emotional storm it had been sheltering her from was beginning to set in. It was a storm that, as the weeks passed, would leave her increasingly submerged in something she couldn't recognize much less control. But in the beginning, it was just a trickle of what was to come and for whatever reason, she'd gotten it into her head that seeing Jack _alive_ might help ease whatever it was that was building in her.

It had taken hours to talk herself into making the trip to the hospital and she'd still changed her mind more times than she could count before she actually stepped out of the elevator and onto his floor. The moment she came around the corner and saw Kim and Chloe and two men she could only guess were their husbands huddled with a team of doctors outside Jack's room, however, she'd turned on her heel and disappeared around the corner again.

She'd wanted to see – had _prepared_ herself to see – Jack and _only_ Jack. So in the end, she'd left without being seen. Apparently, the courage had left, too, because she hadn't gone back.

Not until weeks and weeks later, in the wake of her own hospital stay.

She can't remember exactly what sparked that second visit.

For a long time now, she's thought it might've been his initial calls and messages that spurred her to make the effort. Or that it was insomnia induced. Or that it was the whisper of understanding that she'd been so self-absorbed, so ridiculously self-involved with her own predicament, that she hadn't even considered that maybe _Jack_ needed a friend during his recovery. That maybe she could help him and in doing so she might somehow help herself.

She's also considered that perhaps it was sparked by some unconscious or forgotten need to connect with someone. Someone who might have possibly gotten why she did what she did that day. Someone who might have an inkling of what she was feeling.

Now she realizes it was simply Jack himself. The need to connect with _him_. See _him_. Talk to_ him_. To find out if his reassuring presence might help calm the storm that had finally overtaken her, leaving her battered and scarred. To confirm what her response to hearing his voice on her voicemail had already tried to tell her: that the flutterings of whatever bond she'd felt with him that first day had managed to survive her self-destructive path.

In any case, she had tried.

It was the middle of the night but she still half-expected and half-worried that Kim might be there with him. She wasn't. Jack was alone and asleep when she'd donned the thin isolation gown and the gloves and mask that the sign on the door declared were necessary attire to enter the room.

She hadn't stayed long – couldn't have been more than a few minutes, really – because seeing him in person had forced her to face things she couldn't have known by listening to those first couple of voicemails.

He looked so different, so unlike the man she remembered. He was too thin and pale and vulnerable just resting there, attached to too many tubes and wires and machines. His eyes were closed but there was no peace in his expression. His skin was waxy and dull. And his breathing… there had been something about his breathing that wasn't right.

Seeing him like that just cemented in her head what she'd known deep down even before she made the trip to his hospital room. She couldn't help him. Not when she couldn't even help herself.

And Jack Bauer, for all his resourcefulness and instincts, for all his expert knowledge and skills and advice, was not going to be helping her, either. Jack Bauer had enough to deal with on his own.

He didn't need her drama complicating his life. He didn't need her dumping her issues on him. And they were _her_ issues. She knew that. Her life was a mess of her own making. One that she'd have to find a way to clean up and fix on her own.

Or not.

So she'd sat there next to his hospital bed, watching him sleep, afraid touching him might hurt him. Or wake him. And if she woke him, she wasn't sure any longer that she wouldn't be able to stop herself from breaking down in front of him, which was clearly the last thing he needed.

Yet in spite of what her head told her, she _wanted_ to touch him. To wake him. To talk to him. At some point, while trying to resist the need to reach out and take hold of his hand, she'd begun nervously running a finger along her wrist where the skin was still so sensitive and tender. It wasn't long before her nails were digging into the newly forming scars and she was feeling the pain again.

And that was enough to bring reality home again.

She'd said a few silent words to him. She'd told him how relieved she was that he was alive and that she was grateful he had a daughter who loved him enough to go against him. She'd urged him to fight and make it through the battle he was still so clearly engaged in. She'd wished him a long and happy life.

Then she had apologized.

For getting him involved in something that had nearly killed him – or for that matter could still kill him.

For not being capable of being the friend he may have needed. The friend she should've been. Would've liked to have been.

For not being as strong as she once thought she was. As strong as she should've been. Wanted to be.

She'd done it all without saying a word out loud and then she'd left as silently and unnoticed as she had arrived.

She hadn't tried to see him again.

She knows now, that had been yet another in a long line of mistakes.

She should have gone back to see him after he started sounding stronger in his messages. Or after he was out of the hospital. Or after he moved to New York.

Yet even on the rare occasions she let herself consider taking those steps, she knew she had nothing to offer him but stress and drama and complications.

Only now, after having him back in her life even for those few hours, does she understand that maybe, in the end, that wouldn't have mattered. Not to Jack.

Maybe, given time, it wouldn't have even mattered to herself.

_I should have gone back,_ she admits to herself with a painful sigh. The breath meets resistance in her chest and once again, she finds herself coughing.

"Sure you don't need anything?" she hears Cole ask once the coughing passes and she is settling back in bed. "I could get the nurse…"

"I'm fine, Cole," she mumbles, trying to keep the annoyance from her tone.

But now she feels the tears rising again.

_God, I need to get out of here._

Her hand finally releases the oxygen tubing she's been twisting and bending, only to move on to the sheet, alternately coiling it around her fingers and scrunching it in her palm.

She's not fine.

She needs to get air.

She needs to go for a run.

Or at least a walk.

And yet she can't even stand on her own.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, she pushes the button for the narcotic and is rewarded with a beep that tells her the machine is delivering a dose.

Supposedly.

_I need to get out of here,_ she repeats silently, looking out the window at what lights she can see in the building across the street, _I need to get out there…_

But she's here.

Trapped.

And because she's trapped, because her mind won't shut up and let her sleep, the hours pass painfully slowly, interrupted only by the nurse's frequent visits or her irritating cough.

She pushes the button for the pain medication and closes her eyes. Or keeps them open to stare at the ceiling. Or the curtain. Or the dark, glassy screen of the TV.

When the tears come, they flow silently.

And her hands busy themselves by rubbing at the muscle occasional spasming in her thigh. Or fiddling with the oxygen tubing. Or tracing the edge of the nurse call button or the cup on the bedside table.

All while she lays there.

And she thinks.


End file.
